


One Flesh

by mycapeisplaid



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anathema deserved better, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Don't make Gabriel get his Trumpet, Humor, M/M, Mr. Velcro, Protective!Crowley, Romantic notions about marriage, Sexytimes, a repentant Gabriel, body merge, flexible and fluid angelic gender presentation, getting emotional in bathtubs, metaphysical kinky stuff, sex and humor are my brand?, some angels are bad angels, teenage miscommunications, the benefits of demonic biology, the longest walk to Tadfield ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-08-20 18:29:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20232394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycapeisplaid/pseuds/mycapeisplaid
Summary: Both of them knew the feeling: to be so madly in love with each other that they wanted to beinsideone another.  There were moments that they couldn’t get close enough; even joined in passion, their bodies pressed together, there was still this desire to becloser.  “We’re meant to be together,” Crowley had whispered in the dark, that first time.  “We complete each other. Two halves of a whole.”  “Yes,” Aziraphale murmured back.  “Yes, my dear. Always. Let us be one.”As it turns out, there are benefits to being separate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I loved the idea of a body swap. That's cool and all, but what would happen if they actually had to share a body? I thought of the Pushme-Pullyou (that freaky thing in Dr. Doolittle stories from when I was little) and Mr. Velcro was born.

Adam thought the ceremony had been beautiful. He’d only been to one other wedding, and anything his godfathers came up with was generally more exciting than anything he had to attend involving his dour cousin Alice. Now, as he lay in bed, he was thinking about the bizarre and not a bit sinister nature of courtship and dating. 

For a month he suffered under the incorrect assumption that he was in love with Pepper. Thankfully, the feeling passed. However, now two months after he’d fallen out of not-love with her, Pepper still looked at him funny. He still regretted trying to hold her hand.

Aziraphale and Crowley held hands all of the time, particularly when taking an evening stroll. During the wedding ceremony itself, they’d stared deeply into each other’s eyes (Crowley had even taken his sunglasses off for this part) and then kissed each other’s hands instead of the traditional snog-on-the-lips, and Adam thought that somehow looked more risque than anything he’d seen on the telly. Maybe it was some supernatural sex thing. Hand touching aside, what Adam knew, without a doubt, that his godfathers loved each other with a ferocity that went beyond what was shared by, say, Adam’s mum and dad, or even Adam’s love for his friends, or even of Dog. Aziraphale and Crowley had been in love for centuries. Millenia, even. They weren’t even supposed to be in love; they were meant to be enemies. It was so weird.

As most fifteen-year-olds tend to do, Adam thought about love a fair amount. It was something strange and unusual, a bit off-putting, and yet he was strangely curious. He rolled over on his back and attempted to blow his fringe off his forehead, where it was sticking from the heat. The wedding kept playing in his mind: the way the back garden of Jasmine Cottage was totally bursting with flowers, the old-fashioned music someone set up on an iPhone and speaker, the elderflower wine that the Them may have sneaked a taste of. He’d seen some familiar faces: Mr. Shadwell and the former Madame Tracey, who had chosen not to formally marry but enter into a civil partnership. There were people he’d never seen before, with accents exotic and dress foreign to Tadfield. Of course, there was Newt, who lived at Jasmine Cottage with Anathema in the spring and summer. Anathema had kept her place in America and they spent the autumn and winter there.

Adam figured his godparents asked Anathema to preside over the ceremony because she wasn’t linked to either of their former bosses. Apparently she could marry people back in America because she got some certificate online. The ceremony was simple but filled with poetic things that occasionally made him feel squirmy and awkward; there was other stuff that was so old that he couldn’t imagine anyone really understood what it meant. Poems and such. It must have meant a lot to his godfathers, though, because he could feel the power surrounding the little cottage. Both angel and demon were beaming at each other, their similes so wide and bright, their eyes glistening with happy tears -- Adam was sure he’d never seen two people, well, beings, so in love with one another. 

Adam could sense that there were otherworldly guests in attendance, too. The space felt special, blessed, even, but if either Aziraphale’s or Crowley’s old places of employment had representatives in attendance, Adam couldn’t see them. Crowley had told him that both sides stayed clear of the errant entities for a solid two years before someone offered an olive branch. Crowley did not elaborate, however, and Adam didn’t think asking would be wise. He himself had been left alone, too, for which he was grateful. Azriaphale had explained that Adam had simply willed himself out of his original paternity and set into motion an entirely new existence for himself. He didn’t feel any different, but he no longer could do anything exciting, like levitating himself and his friends, either. If he still had powers, he would have used them to speed up the wedding so the cake would come sooner.

After the exchange of vows and rings, there was a lovely little luncheon with really good cake. Then there was dancing, the adults drank Champagne and then late-afternoon Crowley led Aziraphale to that posh car of his and they drove away. 

It was a much better wedding than cousin Alice’s, Adam thought, yawning. Their marriage ceremony was even longer and more boring, and the vicar quoted things from the Bible and talked about ‘two bodies becoming one flesh’ and other discomforting thoughts. Anathema didn’t say anything from the Bible, but she did say something to the effect that Aziraphale and Crowley would now call each other husband. 

Technically, this gathering wasn’t a legal wedding at all. Misters Ezra Fell and Anthony J. Crowley had officially married in a register’s office the week prior. Why adults needed some special piece of paper or a term that somehow made their love official seemed incredibly silly to Adam. His father told him it was something about taxes. His mother told him it was to make a public promise. Anamathea, during the ceremony, said it was about the joining of souls.

_That’s neat,_ he thought to himself as he nodded off. _The joining of souls. Two halves fitting perfectly together. Like mixing two types of fizzy drink together until you made something entirely new_. Was that romantic? He’d have to ask Wensleydale, who had somehow become an expert on romance after having read _Pride and Prejudice_. 

Outside his window, bush crickets chirped, the wind rustled the leaves in the trees, and the moon was eclipsed behind a cloud. The last thing he thought of before he fell asleep was his godfathers, a striking contrast of light and dark, their hands clasped together, smiling stupidly at each other: finally, together the way they wanted to be. 

_The two are now one,_ he thought.

***

Twelve miles down the road, at a cozy B&B Aziraphale and Crowley had rented for the weekend, something very unusual was happening. Indeed, the enthusiastic shagging of an angel and demon could be considered unusual. But they were done with that now, all tucked in against the other, Crowley’s head on Aziraphale’s comfortable chest, their legs a-tangle, their breathing slow and gentle. They had loved each other so well that even Aziraphale was fast asleep. No, what was unusual happened like so: two beings lay on the bed, their bodies silver in the moonlight that streamed through the window. A cloud passed in front of the moon, throwing it into deeper shadows. When the cloud passed a moment later, Aziraphale and Crowley were no longer in the bed.

But someone else was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to girlofthemirror and Bettyswallocks for the Brit-pick, and CanolaCrush, as always, for untangling my tenses.

Aziraphale was having an erotic dream in which he and his new husband had abandoned their bodies completely and were engaged in an ethereal-occult version of the horizontal tango. What they were doing was indescribable. It transcended mortal pleasure. He and Crowley were together on an alternate plane, one in which their very souls could frolic, mingle, soar, tumble, and do whatever else spiritual beings can do when untethered from their human bodies. 

It was beautiful but also exhausting, so when the both of them were fully drunk off each other and could summon no more energy to have yet another supernatural climax, they mutually decided it was time to untangle themselves and return to Earth.

This is when the dream turned into a nightmare. 

Aziraphale gave Crowley’s occult essence an ethereal goodbye kiss, promising that once they had recovered, they would do it again the human way, and willed himself back into his body.

Nothing happened.

_I must be dreaming,_ he said to himself. If he were dreaming, he hoped he would wake up soon, because the sensation of being not himself was swiftly crossing over from disconcerting to unbearable. While Crowley’s presence had him burning with love a moment ago, the demon still seemed to be everywhere. It did not feel malicious, just uncomfortable, this sticky-lust-residue, like he had gorged himself on lemon meringue pie and now all he could stomach was a glass of water and a simple green salad without dressing. He willed himself back into his body again, with no success. 

He was struck with the terrifying thought that perhaps he had discorporated and could no longer form a body of earthly flesh. _A nightmare,_ he told himself again. _This is why I rarely sleep._ He might just have to suffer through it and everything would be ticketyboo by the time he woke up again. Maybe he needed to pinch himself. He would have done, had he a body to pinch.

Crowley’s presence didn’t diminish. In fact, it grew more distressed and then tipped right over into panic. “Budge over,” came the demon’s disembodied voice. “You’re...everywhere. All over me. I can’t…ugh...ack...shit...”

Aziraphale heard his stream of profanities trail off and then start back up again.

“...Can’t see a damned thing… Aziraphale?”

Fear finally settled firmly in Aziraphale’s mind. Maybe it wasn’t a nightmare. Maybe they had been caught; Heaven and Hell had conspired and somehow captured them both. “Crowley? Are you there? Crowley!”

The body on the bed was writhing now, its heart galloping along and a sheen of sweat gathering on its brow. Thankfully, bodies can jolt themselves out of nightmares when they become too intense, and that’s exactly what happened to the single body on the bed that was neither Aziraphale nor Crowley but rather some odd combination of the two of them.

He opened his eyes and sat straight up, panting and clutching at the bedsheets.

Imagine a puppy chasing its tail: round and round it goes, frantically searching for what should be within reach. This was what the body on the bed was doing as both Crowley and Aziraphale spent a terrified minute on hands-and-knees looking for each other. Both of them were trying to talk at once. Aziraphale was attempting to say, “Crowley! Where are you?” and Crowley was attempting to say, “Bloody buggering fuck” but what came out instead of words and sentences was a nonsensical garbling more suited to a zombie flick than a marital bed. 

The body lurched out of the bed and fell to the floor. “Ow,” said Aziraphale and Crowley at the same time.

“Did you do this?” Crowley accused.

“Don’t blame me, I was asleep!”

“Let’s just...wait, no…”

“...be patient...this way...move…”

The body had what looked like a seizure right there on the floor as they fought for control.

“Let me do it. I’ve done it before.”

“I have too. I’m a demon. I know how to possess a body.”

“I’ve done it more recently than you have,” Aziraphale insisted.

“Just shut up and let. Me. Drive. This. Body!” Crowley managed to wrestle control of the vessel while Aziraphale huffed and tried to relax. In odd, uncoordinated movements, the body managed to stand up, wobble across the room, ambulate into the bathroom, and find itself in the mirror.

“Good Lord,” said Aziraphale, in a voice that was not his. 

“Fuck me,” said Crowley, in the exact same one.

***

The first time they made love, Aziraphale had been struck with an intense desire to be _inside_ Crowley. He’d imagined many different scenarios for their first romantic encounter, but when the time finally arrived, he was overcome with a need to fill, to join, to push in...

“I want to be inside you,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s eyes grew big and round. 

“Yeah, yeah that,” Crowley stammered and lay his body and emotional defenses bare. 

Then, when they were joined, chests smashed together, breath coming fast, Aziraphale said it again, this time directly against Crowley’s lips.

“You are, angel, you are,” Crowley wheezed. “You’re in me. Sweet Satan, that’s...that’s... Bloody fantastic…”

“No,” said Aziraphale, kissing his forehead, his temple, his ear. “I mean, yes, I am, I’m in you, I can feel you everywhere, my dear,” and at this he pressed his hips down a bit further, causing Crowley to gasp, “but...I want…”

“It’s yours,” said Crowley. “Anything.”

“...I want you to feel how much I love you.”

“I can. I do.”

“All of it. I don’t know if I can hold it in.”

“Don’t.”

“It might be dangerous,” he whispered as he picked up the pace. “It might hurt you.”

“I can bear it. I’ll take anything you give.”

Aziraphale pulled back enough for them to make eye contact. “Yes,” he said, finally seeming to tame whatever was threatening to let loose from within. “I do believe you can.”

In the end, Aziraphale hadn’t been able to hold everything in completely. Crowley was sore and exhausted in the best possible way when Aziraphale finally came. Sex with an angel was about more than simple human ejaculation; Crowley felt waves of love pass through him, so intense he had a second orgasm that caused his feet to cramp. As he groaned through it, Aziraphale lost control of his wings, smashing up his precious Tiffany lamp.

They lay side-by-side, panting. 

“Are you quite all right?”

“Nngh,” grunted Crowley. “Don’t know what you did there, at the end. It’s fading, but I can still feel it. Bouncing all around inside. Like a pinball machine. Ding ding ding. You won.”

“Oh dear. I assumed my, um, you know, would be just like any other human’s.”

“Not _that_,” said Crowley, flapping a hand. “Just… you. Your...the way you feel about me.”

“Ah. Love, then?”

Crowley breathed deeply, then reached around, drawing his angel close to his side. Aziraphale went willingly, snuggling in now that he wasn’t sweating so much. “Yeah,” admitted Crowley. “That. Love.”

“I feel it too,” said Aziraphale. “The love, yes, but I always feel that from you. There’s more, something darker, more sensual. You’re quite a lusty demon, my dear. It’s thrilling.” He absently stroked the hair on Crowley’s chest.

“The things I’ve imagined doing with you...you have no idea.”

“You might be surprised.” Aziraphale closed his eyes. “I never imagined you’d be a cuddler,” he mused.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Crowley yawned. “Stay with me? Give me an hour and then we’ll get up and do it again.”

Aziraphale couldn’t sleep, but he lay there comfortably next to his lover, feeling decidedly happy. _He finally knows,_ he thought to himself, _just how much I feel for him. And Good Heavens, he’s an excellent shag._ Aziraphale couldn’t wait to -- how did humans put it? -- make the beast with two backs again.

***

“Well, this is a look,” said Crowley, leaning in to see this new body more clearly. “If this is Hastur’s version of revenge,” he leered, “I’m going to disembowel him.” The leer was all Crowley, but the face doing the leering couldn’t quite master the lift of the lip just right. This was because the lips, and the teeth, for that matter, were clearly Aziraphale’s. The chin, though. Well, that was still Crowley’s. 

“Oh, this is worse than that time you showed me the thing you do on your mobile where it merges the pictures together.”

The body’s dark eyebrows (Crowley’s) knitted together above grey-green eyes (obviously Aziraphale’s). His hair was still shockingly red, although it was shorter than he usually wore it, and curly.

“I look like Ronald McDonald had a baby with Maggie Smith.”

“Now that’s just insulting to everyone,” scoffed Aziraphale.

Crowley was aware of something pulling at him internally, making him twitch. “What are you doing? Stop that,” he demanded.

“I’m trying to miracle myself out of here,” said Aziraphale, tugging spiritually at himself again. 

Inspired, Crowley tried the same. He tried several complicated hand gestures and two incantations before realising it was pointless. He returned his gaze to the mirror. Crowley had lived a very long time; he knew how human genetics worked and could see familial characteristics as they were passed down from generation to generation. He sometimes marvelled at it, how sometimes children looked so much like their parents, or one sibling would favour the mother while the other was the spitting image of their father. The body he was inhabiting looked strangely like his and Aziraphale’s offspring, should they ever manage that feat. Some of their features appeared to be merged, while others were clearly direct copycats of their respective owners. 

Crowley abandoned the mirror and looked down, past a chest that was softer than the one he was used to, past nipples that were much more like Aziraphale’s than his own, then further down to his feet, which were still narrow and long-toed. 

It was then that he noticed what was missing. 

“Oh, no,” said Crowley. “Quick, make an effort.”

There was a prolonged silence in which both angel and demon attempted to configure the body to the genital formation they had both earlier possessed.

Nothing happened.

“I really liked my cock,” said Aziraphale mournfully when he realised that it wasn’t coming back. “I really liked _your_ cock.”

“Try for the other, then.”

Aziraphale did. He liked the other configuration just as well.

“Are you even trying?”

“Yes, I’m trying. Does it not feel like I’m trying?”

Double-effort aside, the space between the body’s legs remained completely sexless.

“Try harder!” whined Aziraphale.

“I’m giving it everything I’ve got, angel!”

Crowley gave up and dropped his hands. He could feel a new emotion now that he was sure wasn’t coming from him. It was an anger that could only come from the likes of a jilted angel.

“I had _plans_ for that!” cried Aziraphale. “Glorious, wild, and...filthy plans!”

Without warning, great silvery wings erupted from the body’s back and banged, painfully, against the walls of the small bathroom.

“Shit,” muttered Crowley as Aziraphale continued to launch himself at the confines of the body, like a hyper toddler let loose in a bouncy castle.

“This is my _honeymoon! _ I have waited _thousands of years_ for this!” Aziraphale cried wretchedly. His anger had tipped over into righteous fury. “I had plans for sex, Crowley! Lots of sex! WITH GENITALS!”

Crowley willed the body to breathe normally before it retaliated and died with them trapped inside it. _There will be Hell to pay,_ he thought bitterly.

“PLANS!” raged Aziraphale.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the usual suspects for your work on this. 
> 
> In the words of the lovely band Sofi Tukker, "I'm not winning, but I'm having a very good time."

Heaven was less vigilant about tracking its angels on Earth than Hell was about tracking their own. Hell invented surveillance because demons had a tendency to get sidetracked and not return from assignments as quickly as Home Office suggested. Angels could always be trusted to do what was proper and right, so Management felt it would be a waste of resources to keep tabs on everyone. 

That was until the angel Aziraphale went rogue and caused everyone to have a good, hard think about respect and responsibility. The Archangels agreed that even though he was only a Principality with less clout than many other angels, Aziraphale should be monitored. Just so everyone knew where he was, and, perhaps, could stay out of his way. 

This job fell to Michael. Whereas Gabriel had decided that Aziraphale’s trick was “super awesome” after the whole ordeal with the hellfire, Michael was confused and curious as to how he’d pulled it off. She’d volunteered as the ambassador to Hell from the start, and never in her existence had she heard of a way for an angel to withstand the destructive power of those flames. She was sure it was because of his association with the demon Crowley, that snake, who had the audacity to ask for a bath towel after holy water had failed to destroy him. 

She wondered if it was because they spent so much time together. The two glowing orbs --one red and black, for the demon Crowley, and one a blue-gold mix for Aziraphale-- that shone from Great Britain on the globe in Central Office were nearly always together now. Sometimes, if you looked close enough, the orbs looked like they were directly on top of one another and vibrating a bit. It was disconcerting.

The two had been so connected recently that when Michael walked past the globe on her way to the Room of Rejoicing, she had to do a double-take and really zoom in to confirm what she was seeing: there were no longer two distinct orbs. When last she had checked, both red-and-black and blue-gold were vibrating somewhere in a small village in Oxfordshire. There were no other angels in England at the moment. What she was looking at didn’t make sense. She zoomed in further. Something was showing up, but instead of two orbs there was one: a strange marble containing tangled skeins of black, red, blue, and gold.

Michael peered closer, magnifying it with her hands. 

“Oh this is something,” she said, and headed back to her office, Rejoicing completely forgotten.

***

“We can’t stay in here all day,” said Aziraphale. “I’m hungry.”

“We also can’t keep talking to each other like this,” said Crowley, “because it just sounds ridiculous, someone talking to themselves.”

Crowley felt some internal ruffling of feathers as Aziraphale sorted himself. 

_Fine,_ said Aziraphale, this time in his head. _Does this work?_

“For now.” Crowley’s stomach rumbled. “I think you’ve actually conditioned yourself to need food,” he said. Being hungry was distinctly uncomfortable. 

Aziraphale sighed. _That’s likely,_ he said. _Just like you need to sleep_.

“Ngh.” Crowley did need to sleep. He always said it was his choice, that he simply enjoyed sleeping, but the point of the matter is that he’d done it so frequently his corporation now depended upon it. It was often an enjoyable experience for him, but now sleeping was even better because it usually happened between rounds of canoodling with a warm and easily-aroused angel, and there was nothing better than to drift off as the little spoon, surrounded by Aziraphale’s comforting body. The thought of never being able to snuggle his own skinny backside up against a plump angelic crotch made him decidedly morose. “Some honeymoon,” he muttered.

_Well now, I’m sure we can fix this. It must be some misunderstanding somewhere down the line. This doesn’t seem like something my lo--Heaven, that is, would be interested in. Merging us together, that is. God isn’t one for practical jokes._

“Have you seen the naked mole rat?” muttered Crowley.

_We stopped the apocalypse; surely we can separate ourselves._

“For the sake of what we’re wearing, I hope so.”

The body that contained both Aziraphale and Crowley was heavier than Crowley but lighter than Aziraphale. Clothing the body was an undertaking in and of itself. Because Crowley usually pulled his daily wardrobe from the ether, he simply didn’t have much to choose from. He hadn’t packed a bag, so all he had to wear was his underwear, socks, and the stylish dinner jacket he’d rented for the ceremony. This new body was not going to go back into that slim-cut rented suit, but thank Hell for the shoes because they were the only thing that would fit on his long, narrow feet. His legs, while still as long as they had been, now had very shapely thighs and calves. 

So currently the body was wearing Aziraphale’s clothes, though the trousers were cinched around the waist and ended three inches too far above the ankle. It was that or try to leave the B&B completely starkers, which was simply not on, especially with a complete lack of genitals. They had succeeded, after Crowley had gotten Aziraphale to calm down, in getting the wings to go back from whence they came, but had no further luck miracling anything.

“So, angel, you’re the one with the plans. What do we do from here? If you want to eat, I do hope you have real money.”

_I was planning on eating whatever that nice lady downstairs made. There’s an excellent fry-up waiting, I can smell it._

“I think it’s probably best we scooted out of here unnoticed.”

Crowley could feel Aziraphale growing angry again. _When I find whoever did this to us, I’m going to give them a piece of my mind,_ he huffed. _It’s terribly inconvenient, and I do so hate sneaking around._

“I’m not so bad at it,” said Crowley, moving them toward the door. “It turns out that I’m rather good at sneaking.” The body that contained both Crowley and Aziraphale made its way as quietly as it could out of the bedroom and down the stairs. 

_If she sees us, let me do the talking,_ said Aziraphale. _I’m better with humans than you are._

“Do you think we can just magick our way out of it? Make it so she sees us as we were?” Crowley whispered to himself.

_My dear boy, if we couldn’t miracle ourselves a proper cock, what makes you think we can manipulate a human brain? We’ve got nothing but our wits. _

They had reached the bottom of the stairs. If they went silently, perhaps they could creep past the kitchen and out the door without the landlady noticing.

Unfortunately for everyone, the floor of the grade-II listed cottage had had its share of children trying to sneak past mothers, grandmothers, and nannies in the kitchen for several hundred years, and the ancient floorboards yelped in protest the instant they were stepped upon. 

Mrs. Davis-MacDonald turned to greet her honeymooning husbands, who had no doubt enjoyed their lie-in and now joined her for breakfast. It must be said that Mrs. Davis-MacDonald was not someone easily startled. She’d spent nearly thirty years of her life as a primary school teacher, had brought up four boys, and, back in the early 1970s, was a Windmill Girl in Soho. She’d seen all sorts come in to her establishment, and she was currently ranked number one on Trip Advisor for Oxfordshire B&Bs. Not much made Mrs. Davis-MacDonald double-take, gasp, or question her own sanity.

The body that contained both angel and demon froze, caught. Crowley tried to move it, but Aziraphale stood firm, and the body lurched, threatening to topple over.

“And who are you?” demanded Mrs. Davis-MacDonald.

Aziraphale said, “Mr. Fell” at the same time Crowley said “Crowley.” What actually came out of the being’s mouth was a combination of both.

“Well, Mr. Velcro,” said Mrs. Davis-MacDonald, puffing up, “I don’t know who you think you are, but you do not belong in my home! Out with you! Or I’ll call the police!”

Crowley, at this point, sensing rising human panic, mentally shoved his new husband toward the door, and then out it. Something garbled out of their mouth as Aziraphale tried to say, “Have a lovely day!” What Mrs. Davis-MacDonald heard was something more akin to “You’re going to pay!” She reached for the phone.

They reached the Bentley just as the call handler at Thames Valley Police answered the 999 call. Crowley then realised another predicament: his beloved car, which had not used actual petrol for over six decades, wouldn’t start. It was, in fact, terrified that a backside that was not her owner’s was wiggling around on the leather seats. Affronted, the car started to honk its horn.

_Abort! Abort plan!_ yelled Aziraphale. _It’s not working!_

Crowley swore, then pleaded, then tried his very hardest to miracle his car to life. After sixty desperate seconds, he hissed and got out of the car. “What now?” he said miserably. “Got any other ideas?”

_Walk!_ said Aziraphale, taking control and turning the body. _Jasmine Cottage is twelve miles south. We have friends there._

Crowley had not walked twelve miles in one hundred and fifty seven years.

_Come along, chop chop!_ said Aziraphale as a siren began to blare in the distance. 

Sighing the sigh of the truly maligned, the body lumbered toward Tadfield.

***

Duke Hastur had not forgiven Crowley for the destruction of Ligur. Not that demons ever practised forgiveness. Ligur was not his friend, but he was the closest thing a being of Hell could have to a friend: a work partner who didn’t make you want to gouge your eyes out every time you were assigned to Above Duty. After Ligur’s...accident… Hastur was assigned a minor demon --one who didn’t even have a familiar, the indignity of it!-- as his partner. It was a low blow, even for Hell, but Beezlebub was still furious about whatever it was Crowley had done to make holy water harmless to himself, and in Hastur’s inability to rein in the wayward traitor. Beezlebub was also willing to let Crowley flee the nest completely, and as far as Hastur was concerned, one just didn’t escape Hell. It was a lifelong contract you signed when you Fell, and Satan didn’t generally cooperate with union demands. 

Beezlebub had strictly forbid Hastur from enacting revenge upon the hapless demon, citing a desire to get on with the whole business. But it rankled. Ooh, did it ever rankle. Crowley, oddity that he was, was simply allowed to continue his fraternisation with the angel he called his “best friend”, allowed to use miracles willy-nilly and shapeshift at will. It was an abomination, and not the kind Hell approved of.

The reality of the situation was that Hastur’s feelings aligned with being a proper demon: he was angry, vengeful, and, truth be told, jealous. It’s not that he wanted to go and live up there, drive a fast car, drink fermented fruit beverages, and rub his corporation all over an angel’s -- no, he simply wanted to do his job with efficacy and now that he was without Ligur, he had to work longer hours with no one to help pass the time.

He was in the middle of monitoring the daily sin total of the current White House occupant when he heard a throat clear behind him.

“Yes,” he said, annoyed. It was the minor demon, come to annoy him.

“Sir, there’s a problem with the demon Crowley.”

_More than one,_ thought Hastur. “I’m busy. Come back later.”

“I think you should come and have a look at the locator map.”

“Just tell me where he is. I’m in the middle of something here.” Really, he wasn’t. The sin tally rose exponentially and Hell had very little to do with it.

“Well, sir, that’s just the thing.”

Hastur swiveled in his chair to glare down at the miserable creature before him. 

“He, um. Isn’t. On the map, that is. He just… disappeared.”

“Oh. Well. Good, then. I never liked that guy.” He swiveled back to his station. A maggot dropped out of his sleeve and scrunched its way across the floor.

The minor demon wasn’t leaving. It cleared its throat.

“Yes?”

“Er, there’s something else.”

Hastur willed himself patience (if he killed this demon, they’d just give him someone worse) and turned back to glare at this harbinger of bad news.

“The angel? That one he’s always with? He’s… gone, too.”

Behind him, the telephone rang. Hastur turned to look -- the rarely-lit button that indicated Heaven was on the line was blinking red. “Begone,” he said to the demon, reached for the phone, and smiled his best evil smile.

***

The body that contained both Aziraphale and Crowley had walked nearly a mile and a half along a country road completely unnoticed except by a few sheep. Already the formal shoes upon its feet had become disagreeable and a blister was forming on the left little toe, and there was nothing the captive forces of Heaven and Hell could do to heal it.

_I should have eaten by now,_ thought Aziraphale. _And I wouldn’t have minded a lovely bit of fellatio. Or cunnilingus. I haven’t done that in a while. Oh, I did have such plans…_

“Not helpful,” Crowley said.

_I’m sorry. I can’t help it. Being this close to you is extremely distracting. Do you know I can see them? All your fantasies? I didn’t know you’d spent time in India. Good Heavens, my boy. You are creative._

“This has got to be Hell’s idea,” Crowley moaned. “What could be worse than Falling? Oh, I know, being trapped in the same body as a hedonist angel whose sexual appetite is equivalent to an Italian libertine’s and not even being able to rub one out! How did I never know this about you?”

_You never asked._

They’d had this conversation already, the one in which Aziraphale had told --and then shown-- an astonished Crowley just how all-encompassing an angel’s love could be, in every sense of the word. Crowley still kicked himself for all the time they’d wasted. Thank Someone for immortality. 

“I’m glad I didn’t,” said Crowley. “It would have been even harder keeping that from Hell. It was hard enough carrying a torch for you for millennia. I’m not sure I could have kept them out of it if we were fucking then. You know what happens when we do.”

Aziraphale did a mental wiggle of self-satisfaction. He did know: it took them awhile to not bleed ethereal and occult power all over London every time they did it. It wreaked havoc with the electrical grid and the less we say about what happened with the trains, the better. 

_I like it this way,_ said Aziraphale. _I’m proud to show you off. You look lovely on my arm, and I couldn’t care less what Michael thinks about it. In fact, next time we run into her, pinch me on the bum or something. She’ll be scandalized._

Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s mood deflate again. “I would if you had a bum to pinch and I fingers to pinch it with,” he sighed. “I love your bum. It’s all...squishy. Love to put my hands on it and just...Mmn.” 

They walked a minute in silence as they both thought about bums and bum-related activities. 

_This sucks_, said Aziraphale. 

“You said it, angel.” 

They passed more sheep. 

Crowley mourned his car. 

Aziraphale kept thinking about sex. 

And the blister just grew worse. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to CC for the beta.

There are things that must be seen to be believed. Two miles from Tadfield, Duke Hastur materialized out of the ground and waited. The day was annoyingly sunny and bothered his eyes, so he found a tree to lurk behind. After half an hour, a figure appeared around the bend. Hastur squinted. Whoever it was, it sure wasn’t the Serpent of Eden -- Hastur would recognize his stupid swishy swagger a mile off. But this body wasn’t walking correctly either; the arms weren’t quite moving in tandem with the legs, and the entire gait was stilted and jerky. It was rather funny, actually. If he had one of those human devices, he could take a video and play it during the next staff meeting. 

He stayed hidden until the figure approached, just to be sure Michael was telling the truth. Angels didn’t lie, but they could equivocate. The approaching man was muttering things Hastur couldn’t make out, followed by a very distinct, “Fucking hell.”

If that wasn’t a cue, he didn’t know what was.

“Hello,” he said, emerging from his hiding spot.

“Just shut up and let me deal with this,” said the man who looked sort of like Crowley, sounded sort of like Crowley, smelled a bit like Crowley, and who was most definitely _not_ Crowley.

“Not you, you idiot,” said Not-Crowley, this time directly to Hastur. “I don’t have time for this.” Not-Crowley paused, as if he were listening to something, before saying, “Does he look like he’s terrified?”

Hastur frowned. Not-Crowley kept walking, so the Duke of Hell had no choice but to fall into step next to him.

“Are you the demon Crowley,” he asked, “Serpent of Eden, Tempter of Man and Befouler of Angels?”

“Befouler of angels? _Befouler?_… Hmph! Is that what they’re calling it down there? Befouler my…Calm down there…Just wait one minute!” 

Hastur wondered if perhaps this being was ill, if Michael had read it all wrong. 

Not-Crowley abruptly stopped, and his head, _Exorcist_-style, swiveled to meet Hastur’s curious gaze. The Duke was taken aback: those eyes were not Crowley’s usual shape or colour, but they were familiar in an uncomfortable way. “Piss off,” said Not-Crowley, and continued walking, his head slowly swiveling forward once more.

Hastur couldn’t believe it. The archangel was right! He was looking at something that shouldn’t possibly exist: a demon and an angel sharing the same body. It sounded like a tawdry horror movie they’d show in Hell on Mandatory Community Night: _Possessed by an Angel._

“So it _is_ you! I can’t say this is an improvement.”

“You look even uglier with these eyes, Hastur. Don’t you have a disease to spread?”

“Is that any way to talk to an old friend? I heard you got married.”

“Sorry I didn’t extend you an invite.”

“I’ll bet you and that angel of yours are closer than ever, eh?”

Not-Crowley stopped again, then sighed heavily. “So this is _your_ punishment, then?” Hastur could almost see Crowley, all jutting chin, pouty lower lip, and furrowed brow. “You and the guys having a good laugh down there? Beez get miffed that quotas are down? Fuck you. I’m a free agent now.”

“Oh, this has nothing to do with us. Quotas aren’t down, you rubbish excuse for a demon. I was just sent to confirm. Dagon is having a hell of a time with the paperwork. Your situation is unprecedented.” A pause. “And I got a call. From Upstairs.”

“You don’t say.”

“Is that angel really in there?” Hastur asked, extending a scabby finger to poke a shoulder. It was knocked away immediately.

“I most certainly am,” said Not-Crowley, “and I’d appreciate you keeping your hands to yourself.”

Hastur took a step back, reassessed the situation, and had a good, long laugh. “It serves you right,” he said, after he recovered. “I hope you’re enjoying all that righteousness.” 

Not-Crowley hissed. 

“I take it you’re stripped of all your magick, or you’d have fixed this situation by now.”

“Your powers of observation are astounding,” muttered Not-Crowley.

“Well, I guess this is it. You’re not even a worthy adversary. That’s depressing. I was hoping for revenge. I have to work with a minor demon now, and it’s so tedious. Ligur didn’t deserve what you did to him. I don’t know about your stint in the bathtub, but I would have found a way to pay you back. Make you suffer. You’re always such a disappointment, Crowley. Right to the bitter end. Well, can’t say you’ll be missed.” 

He stopped following.

But the body containing both angel and demon stopped walking, too.

“Wait!”

Hastur slowly turned. Was Crowley actually going to beg? The body was doing something strange, cycling through different facial expressions and making funny noises to itself before it spoke again.

“Mr. Hastur, if you please, I’m sure this was a hilarious joke...” The angel, then. “...Ha, ha, have some fun, traditional wedding night prank. But now that we’ve all had a good laugh perhaps we could just go back to the way things were and…” Hastur had never heard of wedding night pranks, but perhaps they were a thing humans did. (He knew they traditionally sealed the deal with fornication, and for hundreds of years Hell got an unexpected boost of human misery every time a young woman was married off to some old codger because her family thought it would bring them power and prestige. Humans had corrupted the divine blessing of shared love and somehow twisted sex into a sin, and boy did Satan not look that gift horse in the mouth. Hell has an entire dorm for the men who stoned prostitutes.) The angel kept nattering on. “...Weddings are very symbolically important and I’ve been waiting for mine a very long time, and there are certain activities that are expected…”

“Will you shut up?” said Hastur, who had now grown curious as to how a demon and angel could possibly inhabit the same body. If Heaven nor Hell was responsible for this abomination, then who was? Another rogue angel? Another traitorous demon? He gathered his demonic powers and looked _in_.

There, before him: a vessel containing ethereal and occult essences that were essentially cancelling each other out. Creating a chimera such as this was magick far beyond his own ability. It had to have been done by someone higher up -- maybe even Satan himself. The old boy always did have a sick sense of humor. And it _was_ sickening: Hastur began to feel unwell as he experienced the power of a love-lust combo so strong it was radiating off the body in waves. The feeling nearly made him physically recoil: part of it was a glittery-golden, sticky-sweet brand of lust he didn’t even know existed -- that of a corrupted angel, must be -- and part of it was a thick demonic love, somehow plush, dark and velvety, and very, very deep. The body was like a balloon full to the point of popping but simply unable to burst. 

“Disgusting,” he murmured. “A demon. In love. It’s just not right.” Perverted, is what it was.

“We would both be very much obliged if can you sort this out?” said the angel.

Hastur took a step back. “Can’t. You’re fucked,” he said simply. “And, just to let you know, you’re going to explode unless you discharge some of that… stuff inside you.” He grimaced. 

“I would if I could!” said Not-Crowley, dramatically. “The usual methods aren’t exactly available at the moment!”

There was a desperation in the voice that made Hastur risk another deep-look at the corporation to the essence within. 

Oh. Oh-ho! 

One of a demon’s primary weapons is their ability to read into humans, to lay bare all their hidden dark desires and base instincts in order to more easily manipulate them. The skill was rarely used on their own kind, since they glorified their nature rather than try to suppress it. He’d never tried on an angel -- he’d just assumed there was nothing, by their very nature, to uncover. This body, however, was near-pulsing with desire, and so Hastur read it. More than anything, the body was craving a physical intimacy that matched its emotional and metaphysical intimate state. Hastur remembered poor Ligur, dissolved into a puddle of goo in Crowley’s London high-rise. Maybe there was a way to seek revenge, after all.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I do believe people get gifts when they do one of those marriage things.”

There was nothing but a grunt from the body, which had taken up walking again.

“You seem very complete, all mushed-up, lovey-dovey like,” he said. “But you’re missing something you usually have.”

“Go away,” sing-songed Not-Crowley.

“How about I give you a little gift before I go?”

Not-Crowley stopped again and frowned. “No. We’re not negotiating anything.”

“No, it would be my pleasure. Consider it our little gift.”

Crowley cringed. Hastur snapped. 

“Enjoy your flaming sword, Principality. Try not to lose it this time.”

Smirking, he descended. 

Not-Crowley continued toward Tadfield, now walking even more awkwardly, cursing to himself as he tried to negotiate a raging erection and tight-as-hell balls.

***

_Do you really think we’re going to explode?_

Crowley was in no mood for talking, and he was currently considering that the two of them should keep both of their London residences just to give each other space sometimes. He did love Aziraphale dearly, could listen to him idly chat for hours, loved to hear him sing little wordless tunes to himself as he organized the bookstore...he even loved some of the angel’s more irritating qualities. But sometimes a demon needs a little solitude. Like now.

_Because I’m thinking we might. Has a human ever died of sexual frustration?_

“I don’t think so.”

_I think it’s leaking._

“Don’t talk about it. This is awful. I can’t even think about it. If it came from Hastur’s imagination, I never even want to see it. Pretend that it’s not there.”

_It’s practically a dowsing rod, dear boy, there’s no ignoring it. I can’t tell which is more uncomfortable. Our feet or these bloody trousers… _

The cock _was_ leaking. Bless everything, thought Crowley bitterly. This was undoubtedly worse than watching _The Sound of Music_ for eternity. He was sure of it. He thought of all the famous artists in Hell who drew demons with cocks, wondering whose design Hastur had plagiarized: was it Picasso’s corrugated cardboard pop-up penis? Maybe his new genitals resembled the freakish dick of Dionysus? 

Whatever he now had down there, it wasn’t his, and it wasn’t Aziraphale’s, and therefore it was an insult to any effort either of them had ever made for each other. Their sex bits were hand-crafted, personally designed, and adapted to whatever form of physical love they might want to share with each other at the time. This? This was an uncomfortable bit of flesh that would always remind Crowley of the demon he hated the most. He vowed never to touch it. Knowing Hastur, it probably wouldn’t work anyway and he’d just have to suffer with the world’s most epic case of blue balls for the rest of his existence.* 

Crowley could live without sex, but he enjoyed sex with Aziraphale, and while whatever metaphysical thing they’d done on their wedding night was transcendent, it didn’t replace the wind-up and release of sex the human way. The tragic thing about it was that he and Aziraphale had only recently discovered the pleasures they could give each other in that regard, and he would miss it. He was already feeling weary, all the skin on his little toe was now blistering, and he was frustrated enough that the only thing that sounded remotely soothing would be a warm nap curled up with his angel. The thought that he would never curl up with Aziraphale again was almost too much to bear. He would miss that more than the sex: the smell of Aziraphale’s hair, the shape of his feet, the tip of his nose, his soft belly, his perfect teeth, the little dimples above his backside, the way his lips pursed when he blew on his tea... These things were familiar, and homey, and they made something in his chest feel twisty and tight. 

Whenever he felt this way he usually got in his car and went for a drive until he could think again, but now his car would never be _his car_ again. It was there, all alone, left at the B&B. It was probably being towed away. Now he really did want to cry.

_Are you quite all right?_

Was he? “I think I’m having another moment.”

_Oh my dear… Let’s sit for a spell, shall we?_

For a moment Crowley considered trudging right on, but he acquiesced and steered the body off the narrow road and up a small hill. At least Aziraphale could have a lovely view of the surrounding countryside. He lay down and tucked his arms underneath his head and forced the body to take deep, regular breaths.

_Now if you were here with me, I mean, the way we usually are, I’d ask you to lay your head in my lap. Can you picture that?_

“Are we doing therapy now?”

_Stop fussing and do it._

Begrudgingly, Crowley did picture it: Aziraphale sitting primly on the settee in the bookshop’s back room, himself sprawled out on his back, his head cushioned on Aziraphale’s thighs. In a weird, metaphysical way he actually could feel Aziraphale soothing him, smoothing his brow and carding his fingers through his hair. “Feels nice.” 

_There you go. It’s no use getting all worked up about it again. We’ll get it sorted. It could be worse. We… we could be separated, forever, locked away from each other somewhere. This isn’t ideal, but at least we still have one another._

Crowley knew as much: an eternity stuck sharing a body with Aziraphale was better than no Aziraphale at all.

“I miss your lap,” said Crowley. “I miss your hands.” He told himself he wasn’t whining. He totally was.

_Do you believe him? That Hell has nothing to do with this?_

“‘Fraid so.”

_Then it’s my… my former lot, you think?_

“Unless you know of other sources of significant power that are interested in the likes of us.”

_It’s just not in any Heavenly protocol I’ve ever heard of,_ said Aziraphale. _And I have read them all._

They were both pensive for a long, quiet minute.

“Hey, angel?”

_Hmm?_

“Do you mind if I tune out for a bit?”

_How’s that?_

“I don’t know. You just...shift to that side. Yeah, like that, and I’ll just go over here, and…”

_Don’t try to turn into a snake, please. I don’t see how any good could come of that. We’d just end up with a tail or something worse._

“I won’t. Just going to...I’m going to try to close myself off or something. Take a little nap.”

_Ah. I see._ Crowley felt a wave of fond understanding flow from the angelic side of the body. _You need some space._

“Honestly, yeah. This is really fucking overwhelming.”

_I’ll just... be over here. I’ll wake you in an hour._

Crowley focused, imagined a thick, heavy drapery that he could slide along a bar like a shower curtain and then mentally closed it, divorcing himself from Aziraphale’s thoughts and feelings, yet not completely severing his comforting angelic presence. To his surprise and relief, it worked. He unhinged his essence from the physical body and folded up on himself, curling in, snake-style, until he felt safe and contained and more like himself. 

Crowley had fantasies of playing the hero, with his angel the damsel in distress. Screeching to a halt in the flaming Bentley --half James Bond, half knight in armor-- was one of the defining moments of his existence. But losing his corporation somehow flooded him with anxiety, and he wanted nothing more than for Aziraphale to crack his neck and bust out the avenging angel Crowley knew lived inside that soft exterior. What Aziraphale wanted, Aziraphale got. We’ll fix it, he thought. Aziraphale will fix it. The panic subsided, and he drifted. 

* Canolacrush added the most awful image here. Let's just say it had to deal with maggots and I'll never forgive her. For the record, the body's current dick works just fine. As you will see in the next chapter.

Also, Picasso did make a cardboard demon with a dick. I've seen it in person.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the longest (and sexiest) walk to Tadfield, ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to CanolaCrush who is helping me figure out how to write sex between beings who can change genital configuration at will. I've never written sex that features people with vulvas or vaginas before, so it's new territory for me. This fic will feature sex in all manners of gender representations and an array of mix-and-match sex bits. I find myself very drawn to a trans Crowley, or a very masculine-presenting Crowley with a vulva/vagina. Who knew?

Aziraphale wasn’t a bad angel. That is what he told himself, at least, as he embarked on a very un-angelic endeavour. Crowley had fallen asleep, or at any rate done something to rope himself off from Aziraphale’s mental purview, and after five minutes of enjoying the provincial air and admiring the hills and dales, he found himself right back where he had started: thinking about sex. 

It was just that Aziraphale was a creature of principles who loved tradition, symbolism, pomp and circumstance, and he had just been married, and there had been certain expectations. He found something comforting, grounding, even, in rituals and initiations. Even though, historically, matrimony didn’t favour lovers, he had always thought fondly of the notion of sacred bonding, of a vow made before God to be partners in all things. He didn’t know what She thought of his relationship with Crowley, but be it as he hadn’t Fallen yet, he assumed She deemed it forgivable. Maybe tolerable. Acceptable, even. In fact, he had fairly convinced himself that She approved, and perhaps had even set them on an ineffable collision course six thousand years ago. 

As God’s emissary on earth, one of Aziraphale’s prerogatives was to spread compassion and offer comfort to those in need. It was part of the fabric of his being. He touched Crowley for the first time out of that instinctive compassion, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder, wondering too late if it would burst into flame. It did not, and Crowley had looked at him with such astonishment that Aziraphale found an opportunity to do it again. And again. Hundreds of years passed, and one day Crowley simply offered his arm, Aziraphale took it, and they continued walking as if nothing monumental had happened. 

All of that touching came at a price, though, one Aziraphale didn’t even realise at the time. If an angel radiates comfort, the demon does the opposite: while Crowley didn’t consider himself, generally, a miserable person, his demonic nature couldn’t help but be what it was -- Fallen, excluded, made for suffering. Aziraphale couldn’t help but want to console him, to hold him close and try to ease the pain of being a demon.

It was during one of these times, when Crowley was feeling put-out and down, that Aziraphale realised that he wanted to share more with Crowley than just friendly gestures of affection. He wanted to kiss Crowley, to touch his body and give him a temporary reprieve from the tortures of Hell, to love him demonstratively, the way humans did. Crowley was not an evil demon. Or rather, he had a soft spot for humans, and therefore he was, in his own way, somewhat kind. He was a very good conversationalist, a loyal friend, and an entertaining drinking companion. Crowley was also physically attractive and something about the swish of his hips made Aziraphale’s tummy flutter.

Troubled by his feelings, Aziraphale spent several years at a monastery in northern Scotland where he came to the conclusion that, as a being of love, it was Well and Right that he love Crowley, but perhaps it would be better for all parties that he kept his human-ish physical desires to himself. And in the meanwhile, he made an effort and became a frequent masturbator. 

And then there was an Apocalypse that never happened, a love confession that put any contained in the tomes in his library to shame, and a night of passion so pure, so honest, so natural, so yearned for, and so _deserved_ that every entity in both Heaven and Hell knew something significant was happening in the universe when Aziraphale and Crowley finally let go of all their inhibitions, doubts, and fears and loved each other for the first time. After that, there was no separating them.

And contrary to all expectations, it was Crowley who suggested the idea of a formal marriage four years after the business in Tadfield. “Come on, you’d love it,” he’d said. “Vows, readings, symbolic rings, ceremonial candles...don’t tell me that doesn’t get you going.” Aziraphale couldn’t argue. He _wanted_ their names in the paper, wanted them posted for all to see, to publicly declare, “I love this demon and have chosen to both shag him and deal with his nonsense for the rest of our existences.” He wanted to wear a ring and to hold hands in the park. He was secretly looking forward to the time Heaven popped in for a visit when he was _in flagrante delicto_. Let them see.

So maybe he’d inflated the importance of his wedding and honeymoon, but so far it had been perfect, and he’d been contemplating trying out all sorts of different sexual scenarios, genital configurations, and maybe even some kinky metaphysical stuff that they didn’t usually get up to because it tended to wreak havoc with the natural world. Aziraphale felt about sex the same way he felt about food: he had a broad and cultivated palate, and he could always eat.

Inhabiting a body that was not the one he was used to was strange, to be sure, and being so intimately connected to Crowley was incredibly distracting. Even now, with Crowley shutting himself off as he was, Aziraphale could still feel him, his essence, his being. The problem was that it felt, emotionally and spiritually, rather like what happened when they were making love, and he just couldn’t get the body to accept that it was not, in fact, currently thus engaged. Aziraphale tried to think of all the things he found obnoxious about his husband, or the spectacular rows they’d had over the years, but even Crowley’s more irritating traits seemed endearing in his current state of arousal.

Aziraphale was tempted. It wasn’t hard to be tempted when you had the original tempter tangled up with your own psyche. Aziraphale mentally prodded the division between them, and when Crowley didn’t engage, Aziraphale quit resisting and snuck himself fully into the corporation lying in the tall grass at the top of a hill. 

This body was different from his own, and Aziraphale could tell some parts of it were distinctly Crowley. His sense of smell, for example, was now linked to his sense of taste, and he breathed through his mouth for a while, marvelling at everything he could sense in the air that he usually couldn’t. Unfortunately, he could now smell _himself,_ and it was like how they smelled after a good romp, their colognes and natural sex odors all blended together. And to _taste_ it -- Good Heaven.

He mentally checked on Crowley again, and, satisfied he was out, Aziraphale snuck his hand down, down, unbuckled the cinched-up trousers, slid his hand into his pants, and wrapped his fingers around the raging cock.

Only a rabbit who was munching clover on the other side of the hill heard his groan. It wasn’t a penis he was used to, but it was very sensitive and responsive. Aziraphale would never admit it, but there was also the thrill of doing the illicit: touching something that didn’t belong to him, that was given by a demon, no less. Aziraphale didn’t know all of its secrets, and so he set about trying, as clandestinely as he could, to discover them. He wasn’t worried that someone would see, per se --there was no one around for miles-- but whether or not it would disturb his sleeping husband. Crowley was such a grouch when he was tired.

After the first minute of touching, skimming his fingers along the shaft, massaging the head of it under the foreskin, Aziraphale failed to care where the cock came from. It was part of his body now, and it was a nuisance, but if they were to get this sorted it would simply have to go soft again and stop its incessant throbbing so they could actually concentrate on separating themselves. He was taking care of a problem, as it were. Surely Crowley would understand.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, let the sun play on the face that was not exactly his, and thought of Crowley, with a lovely, wet cunt, riding him with abandon. 

The rabbit was struck with a sudden urge to copulate and hopped off to find a mate.

Several weeks later, all the area rabbits --as well as the birds, foxes, and farm animals within a mile radius -- were gestating. The farmers had no idea what to do with a sudden influx in pregnant ewes, all of which would give birth out of season.

***

_Crowley? Dearest? We’d better get a move on._

Crowley made a noise, one that meant, “Come back later,” and tried to snuggle back into the soft angel body that should be behind him. It was a tremendous disappointment when he realised that the snuggling had all been a dream and he was awaking to the same problem he’d gone to sleep with.

_You can drive again, if you’d like_, said Aziraphale, slipping himself over and letting Crowley control the body’s motor functions. 

Crowley sat up, inhaled, and froze.

“For the love of…” He sniffed his hand and made a face. “You wanked while I was sleeping? Have you no shame?”

Aziraphale radiated guilt but also indignance. _Well, yes. I did. It was necessary._ Then, with worry, _You don’t mind, do you?_

Crowley stood and tried to decide if he did mind. He still wasn’t going to touch the thing, and he didn’t trust anything Hastur cooked up, but he had been irritable and distracted and, honestly, very uncomfortable earlier, carrying around both a straining erection and a randy angel. 

_It’s not as nice as yours,_ continued Aziraphale, placating. _I know you’re not keen on it anyway, coming from...where it came from… so I just imagined you the other way. Like you do. Sometimes._

Crowley dusted off the seat of the trousers, stretched, and headed toward the road. “Oh, really. Did we have traditional heterosexual wedding sex, then?”

He was teasing, but he felt Aziraphale recoil. Had he been able to see his lover’s face, it would have been wearing the expression he made when he was moderately offended. 

_I think you know me better than that,_ he quipped. 

“Fair enough.”

_Sometimes I prefer to get drunk on red wine. Sometimes I prefer to get drunk on whiskey. I just like you like that sometimes._

Crowley liked himself like that sometimes. He often preferred the vaginal configuration, simply because it was less obnoxious, fit better with his skinny jeans, and he could make it come and come again in a matter of minutes. Aziraphale preferred to have a cock, but on rare occasions his angel would make a special effort so they could rub up against each other, wet and aching, or so Crowley could go down on him and drink holiness from an angelic font without fear of discorporation. “Tell me about it,” he said, deciding not to be grumpy.

_Right now?_

“Might as well.”

_Oh. Well, I was a bit too desperate to spin out anything terribly creative, but we were right there, in the meadow, and I was on my back with you on top._

“Was I wearing clothes?”

_No._

“Naked in the field for all to see, eh?” Crowley could feel Aziraphale turn bashful, but it was a type of embarrassment that revved him up rather than shut him down, and Crowley found he could easily goad him into a state of desperation just by teasing out his fantasies into words. Aziraphale could recite “To His Mistress Going To Bed” by John Donne without blushing, but ask him to close his eyes and explain whatever wicked fantasies he was brewing up in there, and he’d be pink in the cheeks in an instant. “Did I have breasts, too?”

_No, not this time._

“That’s a pity. I have spectacular tits.”

_Very true, my dear._

Crowley had experimented with breast size over the years. He’d been a buxom young thing for a good decade, when other times he opted for small, pert breasts that were little more than a handful, capped with small, dark nipples that thought thirty degrees Celsius was too chilly. Either way, he liked the way they looked in dresses. Aziraphale seemed to appreciate them, too, but Crowley knew that his chest hair peeking out from a low-cut vest was what really got the angel going. 

“So I was riding you like a beast of the field, is that it?”

_No. Well, maybe. You were very demanding. And so, so wet._

Crowley smirked. “I must have been enjoying myself.”

_Oh, you were. I’m sure you can poke around in our head and replay it for yourself, if you’d like._

“Nah. I suppose we should keep some sort of distance. Keep some things sacred, y’know.”

_Ah, like couples who don’t use the toilet in front of one another._

Crowley frowned. “Er, let’s get back to me riding you in the field.”

_I do like to watch you,_ said Aziraphale. _Do you like it best if I hold still, or if I grab your hips and thrust in?_

Two more steps and Crowley felt himself getting hard all over again. “Either. Either is good.”

_I like to hold your hands, sometimes, to brace myself. Or when you put your hands on my shoulders._

“Was I doing that in your fantasy?”

A wave of embarrassment and arousal came from his angelic bodymate. _You were touching yourself,_ he admitted. _We didn’t want to get caught, see? We were trying to get off as soon as we could._

“And my other hand?”

_Pinching my… Oh, you know._

Crowley did know. He’d never seen Aziraphale with a pair of full breasts, but his current form had a bit of extra flesh on his chest, flesh Crowley could squeeze and manhandle, as well as pink nipples that could withstand a bit of abuse. 

Crowley very purposefully had not thought about sex all morning, but he did now: pictured himself atop his angel’s thighs, his legs spread, rubbing Aziraphale’s cock back and forth across his own swollen clit, teasing each other, then spreading himself open and gently backing himself up, lowering himself down, pressing his vulva to Aziraphale’s balls, sliding across them, very gently, just so the angel could feel the slick and heat through the thin skin of his scrotum...

There was only so much a demon could take. He looked around, and thanked Someone for small miracles.

_Wait, where are you going? What are you doing?_

“Hang on a minute,” he asked, stepping off the road and ducking behind an abandoned stone shed that stood a few feet off. He reached for his belt, loosened it, and unbuttoned the trousers. “Angel, I’m begging you. Touch it again.” Then he disconnected himself from the body and clung to Aziraphale’s essence, happily along for the ride.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to CC for the beta, and Girlofthemirror for the Britpick!

By the time they finally opened the gate to Jasmine Cottage, the body not only had blistered little toes, but chafed ankles as well. Aziraphale was used to walking long distances, but usually he did so in his own comfortable shoes. The body had inherited Crowley’s delicate skin, and it was loudly complaining.

He rapped on the door, then stood back, praying that Anathema would not only be home, but also that she could do something about their problem. She and Newton were two of the few humans who knew what he and Crowley actually were, and while Crowley thought her particularly odd for a human, Aziraphale had taken a liking to her. After the rest of their lives started, he’d found several volumes of occult lore he certainly didn’t purchase in his bookshop, and, chalking them up to Adam’s imagination, sent them to Anathema, along with a little card that thanked her for her role in preventing Armageddon. As far as humans go, she could be a bit spacey, but she was an exceptionally talented witch, and if occult forces were responsible for what had happened to them, perhaps she could be of assistance. At the very least, she likely wouldn’t call the police or go chasing after him with a spatula. 

“Hello? Can I help you?” she asked as she opened the door. She must have been having a lie-in; her hair wasn’t brushed, and she wasn’t wearing her glasses.

“I certainly hope so,” said Aziraphale. “I’m afraid we’ve gotten ourselves into a bit of a pickle.”

Anathema's eyebrows came together as she squinted. “Do I…? That’s not possible,” she murmured to herself.

“Well, dear, I’m afraid it is.” He waved at her, a friendly gesture. “Hello! It’s me!”

“A...Aziraphale?”

“In the flesh. Or, not, I suppose.”

She opened the door wider, looking out. “Where’s Crowley? What happened?”

“That’s the thing. He’s right here. Well, with me. He’s inside me.”

Anathema stared.

“I mean, we’re together.”

Anathema kept staring.

“In one body,” Aziraphale clarified. “We’re both stuck in one body. This body.”

“Wow,” she said.

“You believe me! Thank goodness. Is your young man home?”

“No, he’s doing a thing at the library.”

“Now I don’t mean to be a bother, dear, but we’ve just had a terrible shock, then walked a very long way, I really could do with a spot to eat, and these shoes just simply must come off.”

“Yes, of course, please come in.” She opened the door. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I’ve never seen you look like this.”

“No one has,” said Aziraphale, limping into the kitchenette where he sat to unlace Crowley’s ill-fitting fancy shoes. He breathed a sigh of relief and wiggled his toes. He could feel that they were terribly abraded inside of his socks, and for the first time in his life, he was going to need a plaster.

“No. What I mean is,” said Anathema, filling the kettle, “is that you actually have an aura.”

***

Anathema, glasses now in place and with an armful of books laid out in front of her on the coffee table, tapped her lower lip with her index finger. “And you have no unusual marks of any kind, anything that could be considered a symbol?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“You’re sure you didn’t just get… what do you call it? Discorporated? And then put back into a new body?”

“I’m positive that’s not the case. We...merged.”

Aziraphale -- or this person who kind of resembled Aziraphale and certainly sounded like Aziraphale -- sat across from her, on the old chintz sofa. His posture wasn’t Aziraphale’s, though; there was a slouch to his body that spoke of Crowley. Anathema had seen possessed people before, but never something like this: an entirely new being, one that was a perfect balance of the two originals. 

“And nothing unusual happened before this...merging? Don’t leave anything out. There must have been some kind of trigger.”

“No. We left here, drove to the B&B, ate supper, went for a stroll. We returned and made love for hours. It was very satisfactory.”

“Oh,” said Anathema, unsure what to say to that.

“Although, now that I think about it, I was having a fairly spectacular sex dream when I realised something wasn’t right.” He leaned forward, and lowered his voice conspiratorially, as if there were someone else in the room who might overhear and tell the authorities. “It was about metaphysical lovemaking,” he whispered. “Very taboo. Extremely intimate, you see. It all happens up here--” he tapped his head-- “but it feels like it’s happening down there.” He looked at his lap, suggestively. “We don’t do it often. It can be very emotional. I was dreaming about that. I think, that is. Or maybe we were doing that. I’m not sure. It’s all a bit blurry.”

Anathema stopped tapping her lip. “Hmm,” she said, thinking. It was fascinating. 

They had just been married. She tried to think back to whether something she’d said was a possible spell. Binding ceremonies were always accompanied by great power that she supposed could go awry for some reason. She hadn’t technically bound them, however; they were already bound to each other long before she met them. She was considering astral projection when Aziraphale suddenly spoke again.

“Well, I will if it will help us figure it out,” he said haughtily, sitting back properly on the sofa. 

“What?”

“Sorry, that was to Crowley.”

“Wait -- you can talk to him?”

“Oh yes. He can hear everything. He said that it wasn’t necessary for me to tell you any lurid details. There’s no need to be embarrassed, Crowley my dear.” A pause. “Oh. Well.” Another pause. “She’s a grown woman and our friend...”

Anathema watched, fascinated, as Aziraphale had a conversation with his invisible husband.

“There’s no need to… Well, that’s true, I suppose… No I wouldn’t want her to see that, either… Very special, yes… Just between us, um-hm… Must you put it that way? Rather crude... I know… Yes, I do like it but that’s when we’re… Listen... If you’re going to be difficult about it… Do you want to spend the rest of our existence stuck like this? Well, then, do hush up and let us think.” 

She sipped her tea, trying to hide a smile. 

“Pardon me, dear,” said Aziraphale, directly to her this time. “He’s being a bit of a prude about it all. Ow! I think he kicked me.” 

“Actually,” said Anathema, setting down her teacup, “I think that physical intimacy might have something to do with it.” She picked up a thick leather-bound book and handed it to Aziraphale. 

He traced the raised curlicues on the cover with his finger. “Love Magick and Spells?”

“Mm-hmm. It’s an ancient and complicated magic. Maybe you’ve been cursed by a witch. Although, to be honest, I’ve never met a witch capable of doing… whatever’s been done to you. I think you must have inadvertently triggered a spell of some sort.”

“Really?”

“It’s been known to happen. Not merging. Just accidental magic.”

“Indeed, that’s been known to happen on our end before.” Aziraphale smiled to himself, and Anathema decided she didn’t need to know why.

“It still wouldn’t explain your aura. Not even Agnus Nutter herself could have given someone an aura.” 

“What does it look like?”

Anathema let her eyes go out of focus so she could see it better. “Not like I’d expect it to be,” she mused. “It...it shifts. I see blue, and black, and a shiny white-gold, this kind of weird crystalline… like some kind of gemstone. Oh! I know.” She got up and went to a cupboard where she rummaged briefly before she found what she was looking for. “This,” she said, bringing the talisman back to Aziraphale, “is labradorite. Your aura kind of looks like that. But...sparklier? It’s hard to directly look at, to be honest.” 

“Hm. That _is_ interesting. What would you suspect it would look like, had I usually had an aura?”

“Bright. Big. Angelic.”

“It would probably hurt you,” Aziraphale mused. “Or terrify you, at the very least. Humans never did react well to seeing angels in their true forms.”

“What _is_ your true form?” asked Anathema, rapt.

“I’m afraid that’s rather personal, my dear,” said Aziraphale primly. “Well, to the task at hand,” he continued, turning his attention to the book. 

Anathema put the talisman back in the drawer. “Do you want more tea?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t happen to have cocoa, would you?”

“I think so.”

“That would be wonderful. Oh, and, if I might trouble you for some biscuits?”

“Jammy Dodgers or Custard Creams?”

“Both would be lovely, if you don’t mind,” he said, and hunkered down to read.

***

As Anathema prepared cocoa, she watched rainbows play across the cupboards, dancing there from the light caught by a crystal that hung from a little suction cup on the kitchen window. It made her think of Aziraphale’s --or at least the-body-that-contained-Aziraphale’s-- aura, and how unusual it was to see him with one. He had never even had a hint of one before. Neither did Crowley. Adam had developed one shortly (albeit strange and wonderful) after he had disowned his parentage.

She was very good at reading auras, and the one currently radiating from Aziraphale’s head was not what she would have expected. The colors were wrong, for one. She attributed the odd color combination to the fact that the body contained two entities, but more worrisome was the size and shape of the aura itself. It wasn’t big, bright, or angelic, or big, dark, and demonic. It was very… normal. 

She frowned as she measured cocoa mix and whisked it into the milk. An unsettling feeling was growing in her stomach, and she hoped her current line of thinking was incorrect: only humans had auras, and the person sitting on her sofa was an angel no more.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although this chapter ends on a rather dire note, I can assure everyone that the story has a very happy ending.
> 
> Again thanks to CC and Girlofthemirror for the beta and Britpick.

_This isn’t witchcraft,_ Crowley said. He was bored and growing antsy. For the last six hours he’d simply existed, letting Aziraphale occupy the body to search for answers from Anathema’s book. He could metaphysically pull his hair out in frustration, but he had to settle for mentally glowering at their blistered toes, which now sported tiny Mickey Mouse plasters.

“I’d like to rule out the possibility,” Aziraphale said, gentle but determined.

_**I’m** ruling it out. I’m a demon, I know about witches. Witches are humans, and no human, no matter how in tune with the occult they are, can manipulate matter like we can._

“Like we _could_,” corrected Aziraphale, unhelpfully.

_Nnnggrr_ growled Crowley, bristling. _I need to get outta here._

“Would you like to go for a walk?”

_No. No more walking. Fucking feet. Mickey Mouse? Really?_

“What about a bath? I’m sure Anathema and Newton wouldn’t mind.”

Crowley thought about it. _If you can get a bottle of wine or two to go with that bath, I’m in_, he said. 

But first came dinner, at Aziraphale and Anathema’s insistence. For as many problems as Newt had with technology, he was fairly good in the kitchen, and he made a simple dinner of spaghetti Bolognese with peas. Aziraphale enjoyed it, at least. Surrounded on all sides by big talkers, Crowley tuned out while they ate and chatted, thinking about nothing in particular. As he’d expected, Newt and Anathema offered them the spare room, and be it as they had no other alternative, they’d politely accepted the offer. 

After dinner Anathema quite unexpectedly said she had to go to the shops, and that Newt was to come with her, even though he’d already been to them today.

Peace descended. Crowley nicked a bottle of pinot noir from the cupboard.

The tub wasn’t what you’d call huge, and the body that contained both Crowley and Aziraphale couldn’t quite stretch out and relax in it. But after a few solid minutes of soaking in the warmth, it was doing wonders for Crowley’s mood.

“This wine’s not awful,” he said, pouring more of it into his glass. “I mean, it’s not good, but it’ll do.”

_It was either that or kombucha,_ Aziraphale gently reminded him. 

Crowley gulped at the glass. “Awful strange for them just to run out like that,” he said.

_She was being polite,_ supplied Aziraphale. _Giving us some time alone. After all, we’re still honeymooning_.

“It was all that talk about metaphysical sex,” grumbled Crowley. He sipped the last of the wine from his glass and hung his hand over the side of the tub. “You frightened her.”

_Not her, surely. Now that boyfriend of hers… I’m surprised if he even knows how to eat a pussy._

Crowley dropped the wineglass. It landed, thankfully, on the bathmat. “You enjoy doing that, don’t you?” he said as scrambled to right it.

Aziraphale, very pleased with himself, gave Crowley a playful mental nudge. _I really do,_ he said. _I know what dirty talk does to you. In fact, I do believe it’s the best way to render you speechless._

“Better not get that going again,” said Crowley, nodding to his lap, where the cock was, thankfully, behaving itself.

_Do you remember the first time we bathed together?_

“Public or private?”

_I hardly count the Nile as a proper bath._

“Well, then, that was in January 2019. After the whole thing went down.”

_You were so cold_.

“The bookshop was draughty.”

_And we had been out. Your nose was pink._

“It was running like a leaking tap.”

_And I said that I was going to hop in the tub, to warm up, and you looked at me, and I could see it there, in your eyes, that maybe I could miracle it bigger, make room for two, invite you in…_

“You washed my hair,” whispered Crowley, remembering. They had been lovers for weeks then, but the bath hadn’t been driven by lust: it was just the two of them, together, with warm, fragrant water, skin against skin, enjoying each other’s company. 

_I washed your feet,_ said Aziraphale, with meaning.

“You have done. Before. Long ago.”

_I’d wash them now. Kiss those little toes better. Your feet are lovely, my dear._

Crowley regarded his toes, which were an odd combination of both his and Aziraphale’s. The Mickey Mouse plasters had fallen off long ago. He’d plucked them from the water and placed them on the side of the tub. 

“What if we’re stuck like this?” asked Crowley, softly.

_We’re not_.

“But what if we are?”

_We’re not. But, I suppose, if needs must, I can appeal directly to the Almighty._

“_Can_ you? It’s been a long time since you’ve had Her ear, angel. I know you think that this is some kind of cosmic plan, us, I mean, and while that’s romantic and all, the closer truth is that She probably just doesn’t give a fuck. She’s probably got an entirely new planet of beings somewhere because these ones keep gumming up the works.”

Crowley could feel Aziraphale grow squirmy and affronted, and then settle. _Maybe. That’s not for me to know. But I still am an angel, Crowley, and I am more than capable of raising a sword, as it were, if I need to._

“You would go to God for me?”

_Absolutely_.

“Bad idea. She’d leave you in this body and boot me out, bounce me right back down there. It would be falling twice, and that’s something I don’t want to ever do again.”

Crowley didn’t like to talk about Falling. It was a wound that never healed, and while he’d come to terms with who he had become ages ago, the great gaping maw of emptiness was still present, a place where there was once unknowable and boundless love. Indeed, loving Aziraphale, and being loved by Aziraphale, fulfilled him, made him feel whole, but he couldn’t pass a mirror without remembering the pain, the indescribable pain of it. He’d watched humans go through horrible ordeals: people losing limbs and still feeling them, women struggling through difficult childbirths only to suffer the loss of their infant hours later, prisoners tortured in the most unspeakable ways, common folk infected with boils, sores, various plagues. None of it compared to Falling. It was so unbearable that any mortal creature surely would have died from it. The thought of his own beloved angel Falling was enough to make him physically ill. He would never allow it to happen.

_You don’t know that, dear. I wouldn’t let it happen_.

“You couldn’t stop it.”

_Darling, I wish you could see me. I would look you in your eyes, your big beautiful eyes, and tell you, with all honesty, that I would choose not to exist than live without you. Where you go, I will follow. I spent too long denying how much I love you. You begged me, and I didn’t understand. But I do now, I will never deny it again, and anywhere you go, I go too. To the ends of the earth, to Hell and back, to Alpha Centauri if you’re still inclined. So there is no argument to be had here._ Aziraphale’s tone was firm, unyielding, all Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Crowley clung to it like driftwood. _Right now, we’re going nowhere without one another. Literally. You’re stuck with me._

“You’re a creature of unending faith,” said Crowley. It came out sarcastically, but it was true nevertheless.

_Yes, well. It comes with the territory, I suppose._

“You’re being very brave.”

_It’s about time I was._

“You’ve always been brave,” he said, drawing his knees up and resting his chin on them. “You’re the only angel who dared love a demon. Takes a lot of bollocks, that.”

Aziraphale chuckled. _I’m not sure that was brave as much as it was inevitable._

“Don’t say it’s because I’m easy to love,” Crowley cautioned. “Because I’m not.”

_Yes, dear._

Crowley smiled. “You know, it’s kind of sexy. Thinking you’d fight for me.”

_I know you, you old serpent. You’d do the same for me, and you’d do it with style._

Damn right he would.

_Now, this water’s going cold, and since we’ve got no way to miracle it back up, I say we retire for the evening._

“You can’t possibly be tired.”

_No. But I can tell that you’re in need of a cuddle._

“Pfffpt.”

_You can lie to me all you want, but don’t forget that I can feel you like this, Crowley, you, all of you, the very essence of you, every demonic fiber of your being, and it is telling me right now that you’d like nothing more than to be the little spoon back home in our bed._

Crowley grumbled. “Stay out of my mind, angel,” he warned, but there was no malice in it.

Crowley marveled at and then cursed the gooseflesh that rose on his skin as he towelled the body off, and was still shivering as he pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms that Newt had left out for him. He purposefully avoided looking at himself in anything reflective; he still felt as if he were in fancy dress, occupying a temporary space, as it were. The upstairs room in Jasmine Cottage was quaint and homey, if you liked that type of thing. Pushed against the wall was an old brass bed that squeaked as he climbed in. The mattress was clearly in need of replacement, but the quilt and coverlet were substantial, and after a few moments of curling up in the fetal position, he began to get warm again.

Downstairs, he heard the bicycle girl and her boyfriend return, put things into cupboards, turn on the telly.

_You know, darling, we should have our own cottage. We could sleep upstairs and listen to the rain on the roof. We could open the windows at night. I’d put a little lamp next to the bed so I could read. You could have a garden, plant roses._

As he lay there in the dark, he could feel Aziraphale surrounding him, covering him up and tucking him in, his presence warm and comforting against his own. Perhaps, with time, they could even learn to live like this, like conjoined twins. Crowley pushed back, attempting to become a little spoon. It felt nothing like being physically held by Aziraphale, but it was better than nothing. The body was certainly feeling something, however, for the cock was rapidly getting hard again. Aziraphale’s mind had likely wandered right back to his thwarted honeymoon plans. _I adore you,_ said Aziraphale. _My darling._

“Do you wanna…?” Crowley whispered.

_Mmm. Yes, I do. But those two are just below us, and if you’d like to keep your dignity and our sex life to ourselves, as you were so emphatic about earlier might I remind you, we’d better not. You know how vocal I get._

“Bugger.” Then, “What was that you were saying about metaphysical sex?”

***

Trust a demon to do an angel’s work, and this is what you get. Michael ground her teeth together. On the great globe, the small orb that represented the fused entities of the angel Aziraphale and the demon Crowley was still there. And not only was it still there, it was still vibrating like it had been of late. She zoomed in with her hands, watching the colours zip around each other, push and pull, wax and wane, and grow brighter, brighter, and brighter still.

“Ooh, are they at it again?” asked Gabriel, who happened to be on his way to a meeting. “I thought you said they were stuck together.”

Michael’s teeth were ready to crack. “They are.”

Gabriel peered in. “Don’t tell me they’re…”

“Yes. Sharing themselves.”

Gabriel spun around, and then grabbed Michael’s arm and pulled her along.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“You can’t just go watching that,” said Gabriel, aghast. “That’s private! How would you like it if Uriel watched you and Sandalphon share yourselves?”

“She does.”

“I did not need to know that,” said Gabriel, looking unsettled. “Wait, you’ve never watched me…”

“No.”

“Well, good. Call me a traditionalist, but sharing souls was designed to be sacred between those doing the sharing.”

Michael felt ridiculous with her back to the globe, so she turned back around. The vibrating and light intensity had increased tenfold. “But he’s sharing himself with a _demon_,” she said.

“It’s very unconventional, indeed,” agreed Gabriel, “but the Almighty doesn’t seem to mind, so I say let bygones be bygones. Give them a little privacy, would you?”

Michael frowned at the globe as Gabriel headed to his office. Call him a _traditionalist_... Ha! What was traditional was for two angels to, under the most holy and sacred circumstances, reveal their true forms to one another and let each other’s essences touch, mingle, and momentarily become one. Not whatever _they_ were doing. She narrowed her eyes and watched as the colours grew brighter and swirlier still. The orb now looked like oil on water. Too bad she just couldn’t…

It takes a great deal of heat and pressure to fuse atoms together. Human beings have yet to master the merging of atoms, but angels are exceptional at it. 

Before she could stop herself, Michael touched the little vibrating orb.

It stopped vibrating. 

She watched as the colours dimmed and swirled together, each becoming less distinct. In less than a minute, the orb was a completely nondescript beige marble.

At the edge of the universe, twin stars burst into being.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra thanks to Canolacrush for doing her beta work on my wordy writing. The demon summoning? That's all her. I hadn't a clue how to summon a demon, so Anathema's incantation was written by CC.
> 
> We struggled to figure out what to call Madame Tracy. Is she still a Madame? Or does she prefer Ms. or Mrs. now? Is Tracy her first name? Her last name? Ugh. Someone ask Neil.

Anathema, half-asleep, walked into the kitchen to brew coffee. She was especially drowsy, as she’d stayed up late reading seventeenth-century tomes of spells and lovemagic. She’d read until she could no longer keep her eyes open, then fell into a fitful sleep plagued with bad dreams. She hoped a good, strong cup of coffee would wake her up, but instead she was shocked into alertness by what she saw at the kitchen table.

Her houseguest had apparently got up early and helped himself to breakfast. This was not shocking. What was shocking was that the aura surrounding Aziraphale and Crowley’s head was not the same as it had been yesterday. The complex gemstone quality was completely gone, and it was, by far, the most monochrome shade of gray she’d ever seen in an aura.

“Aziraphale?” she ventured.

The body startled, then turned. The face was identical to the one she’d seen yesterday.

“Hello,” said the person. “I’m afraid I must have gotten turned around somewhere, or bumped myself on the head. Is this my home? Who are you?”

“Who are YOU?” asked Anathema.

The person opened his mouth, then closed it. His eyebrows worried together. “I’m not exactly sure. Do you know me?”

Anathema, wide-eyed, yelled for Newt.

***

“And you’re sure that’s not Aziraphale or Crowley?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Anathema, annoyed. “I don’t know who is in there, but it’s not them!”

Both she and Newt craned their necks again to look into the kitchen from their spot on the sofa -- the person was still there, drinking coffee, munching toast, and reading the newspaper.

“Can’t you, I don’t know, do something psychic?”

“I did! Look, all that person in there is truly concerned about is whether there is a little pond close by so he can feed the ducks. He has no memories, just vague impressions that he likes to drive and that he’s lived in London. The thing that bothers me the most is that I could never read Aziraphale or Crowley, not like I can a human. That being in there… he’s human. It’s weird. Obviously he knows how to read, and make coffee and all that, but it’s like he’s an infant -- no memories, no experiences…”

“So he has amnesia?”

“No. People with amnesia are confused, but their memories are still there; their auras are unchanged. It’s like...it’s like this guy’s brand new. Like someone scooped out Aziraphale and Crowley and replaced them with someone else.”

“I’m still unclear what happened to their real bodies in the first place.”

“Yeah, me too. Aziraphale said that they can leave their physical forms, like if they hurt it too badly or get hit by a train or something. He called it...what was it..._discorporating_. It happened to him before, and he was able to hitch a ride with Ms. Tracy. Maybe somehow they...detached...and this physical body’s still alive?”

“So...maybe they’re still here, floating around where we can’t see them?” He looked around uncomfortably.

“I don’t think so. They’re probably on some other plane of existence.” 

“Presumably, then, Aziraphale would be in Heaven, and Crowley would be...back in Hell?”

Anathema shrugged. “I guess. But that doesn’t tell us why this happened in the first place. Aziraphale said they kind of combined into one -- and I can see it, can’t you?”

Newt leaned in again, peeked at the back of a curly red head. “That’s just uncanny. Like they had a kid or something.”

“So let’s say they merged through magic. That’s one thing. But then there’s the more pressing issue: who is in the body now?”

Newt thought. “What about the Ouija board? You could try it.” 

“I don’t think it would work.”

“Why not?”

“It’s broken. I let Adam borrow it, Dog chewed on a corner, and it hasn’t worked right since.” 

“Hm. Well, if they’re dead, how could you reach them?”

“I’d need a powerful medium. It’s not my forte.”

“Call Madame Tracy.”

Anathema gave him a withering look. “You know I love her, but she’s only actually communed with anyone dead exactly once, and that was because Aziraphale was inside her at the time.”

“But she can...be a vessel, right?”

“Yeah. To Aziraphale, at least. Not sure about Crowley. Demons can possess people though, medium or no medium.”

“Maybe we could call her up and have her come back? Then, if Aziraphale is around…” --Newt looked around, again, nervously-- “he could jump inside her and tell us what happened?”

“That would take hours.”

Newt looked back into the kitchen. “I don’t think he’s going anywhere. He doesn’t even know his name. You know, what would really be helpful is if you just had some way to ring up Heaven or Hell and ask them if they’re there. You’d get direct answers that way.”

Anathema stood up as if electrified. “That’s it! You’re brilliant! I’ve never done it, but I’ve got the books here, somewhere, and we’ve got the necessary components, I think, in the cellar…”

“What are you doing?” said Newt, trailing after her.

“Summoning a demon!” she yelled back.

Newt gulped.

***

Anathema may have never summoned a demon before, but she was an exceptionally talented witch, and an hour later, the patch of floor inside the elaborate pentagram she’d made boiled, bubbled, and belched forth a demon who had made the journey up to earth the day prior.

“Who the fuck are you?” said the demon.

“Holy shit,” said Newt.

Anathema tried not to breathe through her nose. It would make sense that demons didn’t smell like roses, but Crowley never gave off such a powerful stench of sulfur. “O Foul Outbirth of Hell, I mark thee! Prithee do my bidding, and thou art...hang on, I know you’re a demon and all, but is that a ping-pong paddle?”

Hastur looked down to his hand. “Yeah?”

“They play ping-pong in Hell?” Newt marvelled.

“We got bowling, too, but the ball returns rarely work.”

“Wow.”

“So you’re the one doing the summoning, eh?” Hastur tested the boundaries of the circle and found himself completely hemmed in. “I haven’t ever been summoned before. Usually you lot pull up Mephistopheles. Or did. He’s had a bit of a breakdown. So you’re the witch?”

“Um, well, yes.”

“Pretty powerful for a human. Do you know who you’ve summoned?”

“No?”

“I am Hastur, Duke of Hell.”

No one gasped, applauded, or even gave the slightest fuck.

“You see,” said Anathema, still trying to breathe through her mouth, “we were wondering if a demon named Crowley happened to be…”

“Not again,” interrupted the demon, holding up his ping-pong paddle as if to physically deflect the offending name. “If I hear about that stupid wanker one more time…”

“Is he down there? In Hell, I mean? Have you seen him?”

“I seen him yesterday. Up here. Walking toward Tadfield.” The demon paused, tasting the air. “Oh no. This _is_ Tadfield,” he said. “I hate this bloody place.”

“But he’s not in Hell?”

“Nope. And if he steps his scaly skin back into it, I’m going to personally kick his arse for a century. Maybe longer, if they let me. I hope he rots, flashy bastard.”

“Oh.” Anathema scratched her chin. Then, to the body in the kitchen, “Could you come in here a minute please, Mr. um, Sir?”

The body that, yesterday, contained both demon and angel entered the room, took one look at what was going on, and his jaw dropped. “Oh my. What on earth is that?” he asked.

“Someone who might know you,” said Anathema at the same time that Newt whispered, “a demon,” and the demon said, “I’m the Duke of Hell.”

The demon and human stared at each other, both puzzled.

“Heh,” said the demon.

“What?” asked Anathema.

Hastur looked to her. “Well, human witch, there’s usually some quid pro quo that goes along with summoning. You don’t just call up an important demon like myself without offering some sort of recompense for my troubles.”

Anathema’s eyebrows drew together. “Is this the part where I sell my soul?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Sounds like a crappy deal,” said Anathema. “As far as I can tell, I’m holding you hostage, not the other way around.”

Hastur considered. “Well, then, I don’t suppose you got a decent deck of playing cards? We’ve never got a full deck. Someone keeps turning the 9s into 6s.”

“Done,” said Anathema.

“That there?” said Hastur, pointing, “That en’t Crowley. Angel neither. You got yourself one perfectly normal human.”

“Where did they go?” 

“Beats me,” said Hastur. 

“But wait... you said you saw them yesterday, right? I did too. Both angel and demon, together, kind of, in that body.”

At this point in time, the body that used to contain Aziraphale and Crowley had finally closed his jaw. “Excuse me, miss,” he said, “but I am right here. First it’s demons, and now you’re telling me I’m an angel?”

Anathema turned to her guest. “You’re a human combination of an angel and demon. You see, there was some sort of mix-up and you lost your original bodies and got merged into one. I’m not sure why you’re human now or why you even merged in the first place, but your name is Aziraphale. And Crowley. Both. You’re Mr… Fell-Crow.”

Newt chuckled. “Mr. Velcro,” he said, under his breath.

The body stared in disbelief, then finally laughed. “Oh, is that all!” he said, giggling to himself. “Next thing you’ll be telling me that there’s an Antichrist!” All parties looked at each other knowingly. “You people are hilarious.”

Anathema rolled her eyes. 

“I can assure you I am neither a demon nor an angel,” said Mr. Velcro, who tried to straighten a waistcoat that was not there. All he ended up doing was tugging at the tatty old Metallica t-shirt Newt had given him to wear. “I may not know who I am at the moment, but this is ridiculous. Now, if you don’t mind, I was hoping you could tell me if there was a nearby…”

“The duck pond,” sighed Anathema, “is just over the hill. There’s a path.”

“Oh. Thank you,” said Mr. Velcro. “Laters!”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” said Newt, grabbing his jacket.

“Now,” said Hastur, “about that deck of cards.”

***

Gabriel passed the Great Globe every day on his way to and from the Room of Redemption. He usually didn’t give it much notice, as nothing very interesting usually happened on it. He was curious, however, to see whether the angel and demon were still sharing themselves. True, it was scandalous, but after he received a strongly-worded memo from the Almighty Herself that said he needed to brush up on his doctrines of Forgiveness, he found it in his heart to accept that some angels had certain little foibles and that was because She wanted them to. That and the fact that Aziraphale was somehow impervious to Hellfire. That was pretty convincing. It was also Gabriel’s official duty to Keep Watch, and so if he paused to study a certain orb on the globe as he was passing, it was within the scope of his job description. 

He had to look twice and zoom in before he was sure what he was looking at.

“Michael,” he said under his breath. “What a fucking killjoy.”

***

At the edge of the universe, twin stars pulsed with light and energy and boundless love. 

Neither was aware of the other’s existence.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to CC again for the beta.

While Anathema was conversing with a demon, Adam Young was sitting with the Them at Tadfield’s Costa Coffee. Tadfield didn’t have a coffee shop until last year. It arrived shortly after Adam developed a taste for frappés. Astonishingly, it was greenlighted by the parish council and built in record speed. There was never a queue, and the Them always had an open table right by the window. 

They were still buzzing about the wedding the day before. Adam had decided he wanted a ceremony similar to his godfathers’, only at night so there could be candles, because a proper wedding should have candles, and Dog, who would certainly still be alive, would be the ringbearer. Wensleydale wanted an elaborate ceremony where he could wear a frock coat. Brian didn’t care about the particulars, as long as the dinner menu was superb and included rack of lamb. Adam nodded, considering his friends’ requests, and promising he’d be the best man for them both. He then moved on to the next topic of conversation -- the new teacher at their school was moving to town soon -- when Pepper, her voice deadly, spoke.

“You didn’t ask me.”

Adam blinked. “Huh?”

“I said, you didn’t ask me. About _my_ wedding.”

“No?” Adam suddenly felt as if he’d crossed a dangerous invisible threshold. “Sorry. I guess I just figured you wouldn’t want to get married.”

She stared him down. “Why not?”

“Oh, um. I don’t know. You’re a feminist and everything…”

“...And feminists don’t marry?” She stood, and her chair scraped angrily across the floor. “What a giant load of rubbish!”

Adam swallowed. “I wasn’t trying to offend you. I just assumed…”

“That’s the problem,” she said, placing her hands on the table and leaning in. “You’re always assuming. I suppose it didn’t even occur to you to ask me to dance.”

Adam backpedaled. “Dance?”

He looked to Brian and Wensleydale for help. Brian was picking at something on the bottom of his shoe, and Wensleydale’s eyebrows were somewhere around his hairline.

“Look, Adam, just because I’m not traditionally feminine and I advocate for women’s rights and I hate the colour pink doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t like you to ask me to dance.”

Adam quickly rifled through his memories. There weren’t dances in Tadfield. The only dancing he could think of was yesterday afternoon, at the wedding. There had been some old-fashioned dancing and then a few popular modern things that had choreographed moves. They were all doing it at one point, but it was very silly and Adam hadn’t thought anything of it. He had never been to a formal dance, but he didn’t think the one he’d attended had special rules about asking people to dance. 

“Are you talking about the wedding? You wanted me to... ask you to dance?”

“I’m saying I wouldn’t have minded.”

“I don’t even know how to dance.”

“Neither do I. You still could have asked.”

“That’s just stupid. You could have asked me if you wanted to so bad. How was I supposed to know you wanted to?”

“Because we’re best friends, you gigantic twat!” And with that, she grabbed her purse and stormed out, the door rattling in its frame behind her. 

“What the hell was that?” Adam wondered aloud. “Am I supposed to read her mind? She’s off her rocker.”

Wensleydale shrugged. Brian spread his hands out in front of him. “I’m not getting into this,” he said.

“Into what?” cried Adam.

No one had any good answers for him.

***

Adam trudged down the gravel lane kicking stones. He hadn’t even thought of a particular destination, but his feet took him, as they usually did when he was upset or confused, to Jasmine Cottage.

For the past few years, he’d relied on Anathema for good advice. She was still fascinating to him, even as he grew out of childhood and into his teen years. And she always had biscuits.

He tapped on the door before opening it a crack. “Hullo,” he called, “It’s me, Adam. Can I come in?”

“Of course!” said Anathema. Adam entered to see her gathering up a dustpan and broom. “Just give me a second.”

She went to the kitchen to empty the pan into the rubbish before returning to the parlor.

“Is everything okay? Did you have a fight with your mom again?”

“Not her. _Pepper._ I seriously think she’s insane. Why does it smell in here?”

“Dead mouse.”

Adam didn’t think dead mice stank of sulfur, but Anathema sometimes dabbled in potions that smelled really weird. 

“So,” she said, “what happened? You guys seemed to be getting along at the wedding just fine.”

“Yeah, that’s my point. I thought everything was back to normal. You know how I kind of… well…”

“...had a crush on her?”

“Yeah. Well, she looked at me sideways when I tried to hold her hand that time, so I figured that she didn’t feel the same. We’re just friends. And that’s OK with me.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes. No? I don’t know. It’s Pepper. She’s...complicated.” If they were going to have this conversation, he hoped Anathema had biscuits. She always bought the brand-name ones, too.

“Sorry, I’m fresh out,” said Anathema, obviously reading his mind. She steered Adam toward the rear of the cottage. “I just bought two packages of… oh, never mind. Let’s go sit in the garden. It’s too stuffy in here.”

A few minutes later they were at a small glass-topped table in the back garden. The roses, which were blooming vigorously the day before, now looked fatigued. A birdbath was not too far off, and a robin was giving itself a bath. It was pleasant. Adam thought gardens were lovely, and that one day he’d like to have one of his very own. He’d grow radishes. He liked the idea of cooking, having his friends over for dinner. He could almost see it: the Them, all grown up, sitting around a table, chatting while eating pasta and fresh veg from the garden. Brian would bring the wine, and Wensleydale would stop by the bakery for that really good baguette they all liked, and Pepper would come home from University and tell them all about...Wait. Would Pepper leave Tadfield? The idea of them not being the Them anymore suddenly made Adam’s stomach flip-flop.

“So,” said Anathema, “about Pepper?”

“I don’t know. It’s stupid, really. She just got all upset about nothing.” Adam was pretty sure it wasn’t nothing, but because he didn’t know what exactly it was, he chalked it up to another one of those mysteries of the opposite sex. The thing was, Pepper wasn’t like most girls. Or at least girls he knew. He had a feeling he had a lot to learn. 

Anathema waited. She was good like that. The wind blew gently, shaking the roses. Pale pink petals fell to the ground and skidded across the old bricks of the patio. “It was nice, yesterday,” said Adam. “The wedding.”

“Is that what’s got you all confused?”

“Maybe. I mean, what if I don’t have a person?”

“A person?”

“Like you have Newt. Or Aziraphale has Crowley.”

“You don’t need to have a person to be happy, Adam,” said Anathema, gently. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes. But...I think I _want_ a person.”

“That’s fine.”

“But how do you know if you’ve met your person? What if my person is Pepper?”

“I think there’s a lot of things to consider when choosing a spouse,” Anathema said. “It’s not just about whether or not you love each other. But sweetie, you have a long, long time before you have to decide any of those things. When and if the time comes, you’ll know. Pepper’s always going to be your friend, Adam. Always.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m a witch, remember? That part of your future was cemented long ago,” she said. 

“She wanted me to ask her to dance,” said Adam. “She doesn’t even like dancing. I don’t think.”

“I’m sure Pepper’s having many of the same feelings you are,” said Anathema. “It’s always a strange time in people’s lives. You’re just figuring out what you want, or _might_ want, and that usually complicates communication. That’s the amazing thing about life, Adam. It’s full of discovery.”

“It would be nice if people came with instruction manuals.”

Anathema smiled, but it was sad. “I have to disagree. Discovering what’s in store for you is much better than having it all written out. You and Pepper will be fine.”

Adam huffed a sarcastic laugh. “She was seriously angry.” A flower petal fell onto the table. Adam picked it up and toyed with it. 

“She’s not anymore,” Anathema said.

Trusting in her wisdom (and psychic ability), Adam sighed deeply and let go of his frustration. 

It was only then that he picked up how tense Anathema herself was. “Wait, are _you_ okay?” he said, hoping it was okay to ask. “You seem a bit off. I hope that’s not rude. I don’t mean it to be rude.”

For an awful minute he was afraid she was going to cry, but then she composed herself. “I wasn’t going to bother you about this,” she said, “but I think you’re picking up on it anyway. Aziraphale and Crowley are… um, gone.”

“Gone?”

“Not dead. I don’t think. Just gone. I tried to find them, but I can’t. You see, yesterday afternoon...”

By the time Anathema had retold the events of the night prior and this morning, Adam had worried the petal into a fragrant little ball of pink mush. 

“Oh no,” he said, wiping his fingers on his jeans. “I thought I didn’t have powers anymore, but...”

Anathema leaned in. “But what?”

“The night before last? The wedding night? I remember now. I was thinking about it, right before I fell asleep. About marriage, and how you said they would be one, and… oh. They...what did you say...merged?”

“Yeah. It’s super weird.”

“Whoops.” He blew out a breath. “I’m sure I can fix it,” he said, determined to do something _right_ after all that mess with Pepper earlier. “Where are they?” He stood up.

“At the duck pond. But Adam, I don’t think…”

“Come on!” he said, tugging at her sleeve. “Let’s go!”

***

“Hello, Michael,” said Gabriel, lurking in the doorway of Michael’s office. The letter “A” of the door’s nameplate had a smudge. He left it there. Michael liked to be called The Archangel Michael at all times, the way newly minted Ph.Ds suddenly require the word “Doctor” in front of their surname even in casual conversation among friends. Gabriel thought his name carried enough weight on its own and only used the Archangel portion of it when Announcing himself, which he rarely did these days. 

Michael spun around in her chair. “Yes,” she said, pointedly. 

“I’m afraid there’s been a little mistake,” said Gabriel.

“I don’t make mistakes,” said Michael, turning back to her computer.

“Oh, then, in that case, you’ve been tampering with our earthly agents on purpose. That will not please the Almighty.”

That got her to pause. “Oh come off it,” she said, rising. “It’s not like you have never interfered. Is this about the Principality Aziraphale? I remember you saying something about how he should shut up and die.” She crossed her arms and leaned against her desk.

“Ah, yes. That I did. I, um, have since had a change of heart. Wrong of me to have done so.”

“Are you getting soppy in your old age?”

Gabriel recalled the disappointment in God’s voice when She had reprimanded him. God’s anger was awful. Her disappointment was even worse. Had he been like Sandalphon, he would have purposefully put Michael in the hot seat so she could feel it herself. Instead, he decided to give Michael the opportunity to right the wrong before he took matters further up the ladder. 

“Maybe I am. Follow me, please,” he said, and held out his arm in invitation. For a moment he thought she would decline, but she cautiously stepped forward, and he led her directly to the Great Globe. He zoomed in on Oxfordshire, manipulating the area with his hands until it nearly filled the viewing area. “That,” he said, gesturing to the beige orb. “That was Aziraphale.”

“That was _not_ Aziraphale,” said Michael. “That was an abomination. It was a corporeal merging of demon and angel.”

“I’m gonna need you to fix that,” said Gabriel, firmly. “Put it back to the way it was before.”

“Surely you don’t mean to…”

“Michael. Fix it.”

“That creature doesn’t even know who he is anymore. Aziraphale’s just fine. He’s just...somewhere he can’t make any more trouble.”

“You turned his essence into a star, didn’t you? Oh, how original. And the demon, Crowley?”

“Who cares?”

“Michael.”

“Oh for the love of Saint Peter, they’re only three billion miles apart, perfectly content. Look, that human down there is going to live a much happier and less complicated life than whatever it was they were…”

“Michael…”

“...going to have to face down the line the next time there’s a war and…”

“Michael!”

Michael sighed and narrowed her eyes.

“You know I always I appreciate your constant vigilance in the face of evil,” said Gabriel, “and your, um, propensity for rule-following, but this?” He gestured toward the beige orb. “This is cruel. You’re going to have to make an exception to the rules and deal with it. They love each other. It’s the most ineffable thing we’ve ever seen! Don’t make me get my trumpet,” he added.

“Anything but that,” she said, finally defeated. “Fine.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then she opened them and jabbed her index finger at the little beige orb. “There,” she said, as it sparked and twitched, before turning back into the swirling mass of colour it was the day prior. “The universe is a little less bright. Their essences are restored.”

Gabriel leaned in to inspect. “They’re still fused. Separate them, Michael. Finish the job.”

“No. You said to put it back to the way it was. I did exactly that. If you’re so keen on watching them mate like humans, then separate their corporations yourself.” She turned on her heel and walked away.

Gabriel still felt as if he owed Aziraphale. Certainly he should do something to make up for those unpleasant things he’d said during the almost-Apocalypse. Gabriel licked his lips, furrowed his brow, stretched out his hands as if he were preparing for surgery, gently pinched the orb between his fingers, and tried to pull it in two.

Nothing happened. The little orb wasn’t vibrating like it had been earlier, but something odd was certainly going on with it. The red and black parts were rapidly circling the blue and gold ones until they had completely hemmed them in. It looked a bit like a strange eyeball. Curious.

He tried again, and this time it sparked a flash of something very painful and very demonic. 

“Yikes,” said Gabriel, stepping back and looking down to make sure his fingers were all right. They were blistered. He blew on them. So much for helping. Aziraphale may have forgiven him, but clearly, a certain demon had not.

“Sorry, little buddy,” he said to Aziraphale. “You’re going to have to figure this one out on your own.”

***

Aziraphale hadn’t even realised that most of his angelic essence had been turned into a star. His last conscious memory was being in a small bed in Jasmine Cottage, but not really there, either, as he and Crowley were somehow on another plane of existence doing a metaphysical version of the horizontal tango, and then he was standing next to a quaint little pond.

He had just enough time to acknowledge that he was standing by a pond before there was pain, a horrible, wrenching pain, that knocked him to the ground. There was a moment where he was sure he was going to be ripped in two and then Crowley...did something. Suddenly Aziraphale felt as if he had been locked in a bunker while a war raged around him. 

The demon was mad. Madder than Aziraphale had ever seen him before. Technically, Aziraphale _couldn’t_ see Crowley, but he could feel him, and the intensity of fury coming off him was honestly painful. Aziraphale gritted his metaphysical teeth and suffered through it. _My dear_, he tried, sending out a soothing wave of love, _calm down, I’m right here, I’m right…here_.

“NO FUCKING WAY,” screamed the demon to whatever had just tried to separate them. “YOU CAN’T HAVE HIM. WE BELONG TOGETHER!”

_Crowley, love…_ and then came the agony again, some awful stretch, an unbearable pull, and he reached out, grasping, fumbling...

Crowley screamed then, a terrible noise that, had it actually been vocalised, would have made the fruit wither and drop from the trees, the crops shrivel, and all of the birds’ tympanic membranes explode. Aziraphale was knocked back to a corner of their current corporation as a great burst of demonic power crashed through them.

_Holy shit,_ thought Aziraphale, dazed, _he’s gone and fought the Almighty for me. My brave serpent._

The pain abruptly stopped.

“Aziraphale? AZIRAPHALE?” Crowley sounded terrified.

_I’m here, love. I’m here._

Aziraphale tentatively spread himself out, felt the boundaries of the invisible bunker fade into nothing, felt himself once again occupy their shared body. He felt Crowley shaking, exhausted and terrified, next to him. _I’m here,_ he said again. _It’s all right_.

“We’re still together, right?” panted Crowley. “You’re here, with me, right? Aziraphale? We’re together?”

_We’re together,_ said Aziraphale. _We’re still together. It’s all right, my love._

“Oh, thank Someone,” said Crowley, and mentally collapsed.

***

At the pond down the lane, Newt stood, awestruck, as the body that had been, up until a moment ago, feeding a very happy crowd of mallards, was momentarily encompassed by a light so bright it made Newt blink and then see everything in photo reverse. When he could see properly again, Mr. Velcro was lying on the grass, crying and laughing and speaking in tongues. Or at least that’s what it sounded like. The ducks had flown to the far edge of the water and were now eyeing their benefactor curiously. Newt looked to the sky, wondering if he had been struck by some wayward bolt of lightning. Curiouser things had been known to happen, after all. 

“Mr. Velcro?” he asked, approaching the body carefully. 

The body sat up, wiped tears from its eyes, and tried to compose itself. 

“Hello, Newton,” said Aziraphale. 

Newt’s eyes grew big. “You’re back?”

“I’m afraid we’re going to need a moment,” said the angel, before his eyes rolled back into his head.

Newt sprang into action, catching the body before it collapsed on the ground again. He took off his jacket and placed it under the head, took his pulse, and made sure he was still breathing. Except for an elevated heart rate, the body was fine. Newt sat down next to him. Sometimes he wished he had a cell phone. But there were benefits of having a psychic girlfriend. He closed his eyes and called for her.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to CC for their super-proof. 
> 
> I also have to thank Gingerhaole, whose versions of a genderfluid Crowley were wonderful inspiration for this piece.

In a very un-demonic display of emotion, Crowley wept. No real tears escaped his eyes, as he technically didn’t have them at the moment, but he was weeping nonetheless, huge wracking sobs that would have hurt his ribs had he also been in possession of those. He was sobbing with a heady mixture of grief, fear, anger, exhaustion, and relief -- very human emotions, but he was feeling them on a level humans simply could not endure.

He didn’t know where or how he’d summoned the power to ward off whatever was trying to take Aziraphale away from him, and he didn’t care, except for the fact that he was now something more akin to a puddle than a demon. It had taken everything he had left, and now he was a mess of metaphysical tears and snot. If they were attacked now, he would be defenseless. Somewhere, distantly, he could feel Aziraphale around him, his great wings spread protectively. Aziraphale could fight, and he would. 

Safe in that knowledge, Crowley fainted.

***

He awoke to familiar angelic humming, a little improvised tune that sounded more like a lullaby than the usual “I’m pottering around my bookshop, here I am, pottering away,” type of hum. Crowley took stock of himself, decided he felt like a hollowed-out pumpkin, and opened his eyes.

“Hello there,” said Aziraphale.

They were on the settee in the back room of the bookshop, Crowley’s head in Aziraphale’s lap. Crowley inhaled deeply, letting the smell of home fill him: dust, paper, glue, billions of dead dust mites, and, of course, freshly-washed and after-shaved angel. 

“I‘m dreaming,” he managed.

“No. Well, yes, in a way.”

“We’re not home.”

“No, sadly.”

“Where are we?”

“At the moment, we’re lying on the ground next to a duck pond. It’s a bit damp, to be honest.”

“Ducks?”

“Yes, dear.”

“We were in bed. In the cottage.”

“Indeed. It seems we might have spent some time elsewhere. I don’t know the particulars yet. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.” Aziraphale smiled at him, a closed-lipped smile where his lower lip folded up into his upper one, a smile of tenderness. The way he was looking down at him gave him multiple chins, and Crowley could see straight up his nose. It was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. 

“You’re doing this?” Crowley looked around the bookshop.

“I thought it would be the best way to wake you up--gently. I’ve never seen you so upset. Not even when we faced Satan himself.”

“Sorry,” he grumbled. 

“It was very sexy.”

“Oh, stop,” he said, embarrassed and more than a little proud of himself. He lay there, basking for a moment while he came back to himself. It felt real enough; the button on Aziraphale’s waistcoat was digging into his cheek, and Aziraphale’s warm fingers were smoothing out his wrinkled brow. “What do you think happened?” he finally asked.

“I’m not sure. We’re still stuck together. Anathema’s waiting out there, along with Newt. Oh, and Adam, too.”

“Our Adam?”

“Of course. Naturally, they are all very concerned. Shall we join them?”

Crowley turned his head and buried it into Aziraphale’s stomach. “Maybe we should just stay here. It’s not as good as the real thing,” he mumbled into the worn velvet, “but pretty damn close.”

“I do try, my dear. But it would be so much better if it were real. Come back with me?”

With Aziraphale by his side, Crowley returned to the land of the living.

***

There is very little that a proper cup of tea can’t make a little bit better, and the four of them, Anathema, Newt, Adam, and the body that everyone was now calling Mr. Velcro, were all feeling considerably better once everyone had returned to Jasmine Cottage for a restorative drink. Aziraphale knew that Crowley would have preferred whiskey, but tea would do just as nicely and leave everyone with a clear head.

Whatever Crowley had fought off had made the body tired and weak, and so with some help, Aziraphale had managed to pilot it back to the cottage. Even now, clad in a new t-shirt Newt had given them to replace the damp one, Aziraphale felt chilly when he thought about where on earth their essences could have gone. There were very few creatures in existence who could forcibly remove an angel from his corporation; most of them were his former superiors, and all of them bore the title of Archangel.

“I think I might have done it,” Adam said. “Somehow.”

“But you haven’t done anything too out of the ordinary for years now,” said Aziraphale.

“Not for lack of trying,” Adam mumbled. “I tried for endless summer holidays. Didn’t work.” 

“Why do you think you were responsible for the merge?” asked Newt.

“Well,” said Adam, “I remember thinking about it. The wedding, I mean, and it was all kind of confusing, and it got me thinking about getting married and all, and about the weddings I’ve been to. I went to this other one, my cousin Alice’s, and it was seriously boring.”

Aziraphale loved talking to Adam, loved how he navigated conversations, how his mind worked. Aziraphale had taken him to the V & A one day and for the first time in his entire existence, he said barely anything all day. He’d listened, fascinated, as Adam talked and talked while they looked at Edwardian clothing, medieval tapestry, stately furniture, and nineteenth-century French cutlery. He and Crowley sometimes spent nights talking about him, how interesting he was, how human, and how proud they were to be in his life. It had only taken the most minor of miracles to convince his parents that they were actually his godparents, and both angel and demon were happy to take on the role. It was something to do, after all, now that they had no obligations to other authorities. And so it was that Aziraphale waited, patiently, while Adam collected his thoughts.

“Anyway,” Adam continued, “I was thinking about what Anathema said during the ceremony, about how they were now one. And then I fell asleep.” 

“Did you visualise it?” asked Aziraphale. “Our bodies merging?”

Adam turned red. “No,” he said, mortified. “Yuck!”

_Angel, please, don’t embarrass the boy,_ chided Crowley from within. Aziraphale mentally nudged him back. “That wasn’t what I meant,” he murmured.

“How did it work before?” asked Anathema, quickly changing the subject. “When you wanted something to happen?”

“I dunno. I dreamt some of it, I think. Then, I just thought that’s what I wanted, or wow, that would be cool, and it happened.”

“Can you do that right now? Think that you want Aziraphale and Crowley separated?”

Adam recovered from his blushing and looked straight at Mr. Velcro. Aziraphale braced himself for he knew not what...but nothing happened. Adam sat up straighter, chewed his lip, and leaned forward. He was obviously concentrating now, eyebrows knit tight together. After an intense moment, he let out a breath and leaned back. “It’s not working.”

“Maybe you have to say it out loud,” suggested Newt.

“I wish Aziraphale and Crowley were…” He stopped, thought about his wording, and tried again. “I wish they were in the same bodies as they were when they got married,” he said, confident.

Aziraphale held his breath. Inside, Crowley braced himself. Anathema and Newt clasped hands.

But nothing happened, except that Mr. Velcro’s stomach complained that it was empty. _Do you feel anything?_ Aziraphale mentally asked Crowley. _Anything at all?_

_Nah. Whatever happened earlier had Heaven written all over it. Right now, I’m not picking up any magick from Adam at all._

_Me neither,_ replied Aziraphale. He was beginning to feel discouraged. As far as honeymoons went, he was certain his was worse than those mishaps he read about in women’s gossip magazines. 

Adam was trying again, this time squeezing his eyes closed and muttering under his breath, when there was a knock at the door. 

“Hullo?” called a voice. “Are you in there, Adam? I need to talk to you.”

Aziraphale recognized the voice at once: it had once fearlessly stood toe-to-toe with War itself. “It’s your little friend Pepper!” he said.

“Oh shit,” said Adam.

***

Adam was amazed at how adults suddenly found Other Things To Do when awkward situations arose: Newt, Anathema, and his godfather(s?) all found things that needed doing within three minutes of Pepper’s arrival, and now the two of them sat, rather stiffly, at the kitchen table together. 

“Anyway,” said Pepper, “it was a stupid thing for me to say. I was angry for no reason. You’re right. You couldn’t have known if I wanted to dance unless I said so, and I didn’t, so, yeah. I’m sorry about that. And I’m sorry I called you a twat. Even though you are one sometimes.”

Adam looked at Pepper dubiously. She rarely apologized for anything; one, because she was rarely wrong, and two, because the Them believed that apologies were better done by offering up a sweet or a favour rather than words. 

“I suppose I should have asked, too,” said Adam, “about if you wanted to get married. I just don’t know, though. You’re very smart, and you don’t like it when people treat you like a girl…”

“It’s not about getting treated ‘like a girl’, Adam. It’s about people _assuming_ I’d want something or not want something simply because _I am_ a girl. But you were assuming because you know me, not because I’m a girl. You were trying to do something right. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been offended.”

Adam frowned. “So,” he said slowly, testing the waters, “what you’re saying is, in the future, if we go to a wedding or something like that, you want me to ask you to dance?”

There was a long pause, and if Adam didn’t know better, he would have sworn Pepper was anxious. She opened her mouth as if to say something serious, then thought better of it. Her eyes twinkled. “Yeah. Or maybe I’ll ask _you_.”

Suddenly warm and flustered, Adam swallowed and picked at his thumbnail. “Okay then.”

They smiled at each other.

“So, who was that in here earlier?” Pepper asked, breaking the awkward silence. “The guy with the red hair? He looked...familiar.”

“You’re not going to believe this,” said Adam.

“Try me,” said Pepper.

***

“It’s itchy,” said Crowley.

“Oh, you can feel it, too?”

Aziraphale and Crowley, still stuck together in one body, were now conversing entirely on another plane of existence. Anathema and Newt thought Mr. Velcro had fallen asleep and left him alone, but he was wide awake. Both angel and demon had simply retreated to a metaphysical facsimile of the bookshop, where it was easier for them to exist the way they once had. It wasn’t hard to do, once they got the hang of it. 

“Yeah, it’s everywhere, and it itches.” He squirmed on the settee. “How do you stand it?”

“It doesn’t itch to me. It feels… refreshing. It’s so...pure, and beautiful. Does my love make you itch?”

“No. It never has. It’s a good feeling, I like it, obviously. You don’t feel like the other angels do. It’s not their brand of love. Theirs is sterile, generic. Righteous. Obnoxious. Reeks of holiness. Yours is...complex. More organic. Intoxicating. Lacking angelic purity.”

“My love for you is impure?” questioned Aziraphale, mock-offended.

“Darling, no other angel in existence has had his tongue where yours has been,” Crowley teased. He started humming “Tainted Love” to himself.

Aziraphale stopped rubbing Crowley’s toes to give him a tickle. “I’m afraid nothing about me is pure anymore,” he said proudly. “You’ve spoiled me, you wicked serpent.”

“You spoiled yourself long before you let me do it,” said Crowley. “There was nothing pure about watching you eat oysters. Sweet Satan, your face.”

“You still remember that?”

“I remember it all, angel. Your calves in that chiton…”

Another wave of teenage love rolled through them. Crowley scratched afresh at his neck. 

“He’s got it bad, hasn’t he?” asked Aziraphale. “There’s a lot going on in his heart. All kinds of love there for that young lady. Friendship, familial, and now, there, look, a little thread of Eros! Our little Adam, all grown up.”

“He’s not grown, angel. He’s a fifteen-year-old boy chock full of hormones and conflicting thinky thoughts. It’s a crush. I know about crushes.”

“Oh you do, do you?”

“Oh, yeah. I have lots of experience with crushes.”

Aziraphale tweaked a toe.

“One very long, massive, epic crush. Embarrassing, really. All of that yearning.”

“Mm. Are you satisfied now?”

“I’m never satisfied. I’ll always want more. I’m insatiable. A bottomless pit of wanting.”

Aziraphale continued rubbing, pressing his thumbs into Crowley’s stockinged foot. He met Crowley’s eyes and gave him a saucy look. “I do hope so. I’ve a lot to give.”

Crowley smiled, closed his eyes, and tipped his head back. “Do you think I can still tempt if we stay stuck like this?”

“No more than I can bless, I imagine. We’ve cancelled each other out. No more miracles. And I am so sorry about your car, dearest. I do hope there’s a way we can get it for you. I suppose you’ll have to get a driving licence.”

“Banish the thought.”

Crowley closed his eyes, and Aziraphale switched feet.

“Should we help him along?” Aziraphale asked as the streams of love from the kitchen tied themselves in knots.

“Nah. He’s got to figure it out for himself.”

There was a comfortable silence. “I’m sorry it took me so long,” Aziraphale said at length. “To figure it out.”

Crowley extricated his feet and rearranged himself so they were face-to-face. “What did I say I’d do if you keep beating yourself up about it?”

“Kiss me senseless?” The gleam in Aziraphale’s eye was naughty and familiar.

“Damn right.” Crowley leaned in.

***

“You mean to tell me that the guy in there is both Aziraphale and Crowley merged together?”

“Looks that way.”

“Wow.”

“I know, right?”

Pepper and Adam had moved from the kitchen to the garden bench. Talking about Aziraphale and Crowley when they were in the room next door was just too strange, even if it looked like Mr. Velcro was fast asleep.

“I’m sure you’ve already tried, but what about just....wishing them apart?” Pepper said.

“Yeah, it didn’t work. It’s not like I can just make _anything_ happen. That was just the once. At least I thought it was. Maybe I have to be really stressed or something to make it happen.”

“You weren’t stressed at the wedding, were you?”

“No. Actually, I was pretty happy. I mean, it was sweet, wasn’t it? That they love each other so much? They’re supposed to be life-long enemies, but instead they fell in love.”

Pepper shrugged. “People do really weird things when they’re in love.”

“I ruined their honeymoon,” Adam said miserably. “I didn’t mean to.”

“They live forever, right? So they’ll find a way to fix it. Eventually.”

“What if they can’t?”

“Then you’ll fix it.”

Adam chewed his lip. “I want to. But I don’t think I can.”

“I have an idea,” Pepper said, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger like she did when she was nervous. “Maybe...maybe you just need something to jump-start it. You know, like a car does if the battery goes flat?”

“I’m like a battery?”

“Maybe. What you did must have taken a lot of power. It could be that you just used it all up, and you need to _bbbzzzpt!_” She held her hands together as if they were holding live wires. “Get it going again.”

“Please don’t electrocute me,” whispered Adam, momentarily afraid. 

“No, you idiot. Not for real. Something that will give you some big, powerful burst of emotion. Then maybe… I dunno. It would do something. It’s worth a try, at least.”

“Positive emotion, right?” said Adam. “I doubt anything good could come of me feeling really sad about something.”

“Yeah. Something that would make you really happy.”

“It would have to be something big,” said Adam, thinking, “like winning the lottery, or...getting a year’s supply of free frappés, or having a never-ending summer holiday, or…”

She was leaning closer to him now. Adam could see the pupils in her big, dark eyes. He could smell the cinnamon gum she was chewing.

“...something brand new, something... that I’ve never done before...”

Pepper was very close now. Something funny was going on with Adam’s heart.

“Adam?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and close your eyes.”

“OK,” squeaked Adam, obeying.

Pepper closed the gap, and kissed him.


	11. Chapter 11

One moment, Aziraphale and Crowley were kissing somewhere not-quite-on-Earth, and the next, they were once again two people sitting on either ends of a chintz sofa. Crowley made a noise halfway between a cock-crow and the yelp of a small dog. Aziraphale gasped and then coughed, as if he’d just nearly drowned. Neither angels nor demons startled easily, but after sharing a corporation and having their essences mingled so closely together, a sudden separation was earth-shattering. It took a minute before the fog cleared enough for them to realise what happened, and when it did, they threw themselves at each other, grasping and grabbing until they tumbled right off the sofa and onto the floor.

That made quite a racket.

They were laughing, clasping, rolling around and petting each other when Pepper and Adam rushed in.

“They’re separated,” said Pepper. Her eyebrows drew together as she stared at the writhing bodies on the floor. “I think.”

“You’re back!” said Adam, beaming. 

Hearing his voice, Aziraphale and Crowley looked up from the floor, smiling even more beatifically than they had on their wedding day. They untangled themselves from each other and held their arms out for Adam, who went, willingly, to the pile of limbs to be hugged. 

“I’m sorry I ruined your honeymoon,” Adam said into Crowley’s shirt. “I hope I put you back right.”

They finished embracing and stood, both angel and demon taking stock of their bodies. “You’ve still got it,” said Crowley to Adam as he stretched his arms and back. “I think we should keep a better eye on you.”

“It was an anomaly, I swear,” said Adam.

“Everything seems in working order,” said Aziraphale, touching his hair, then his earlobes and nose. “All back to normal.”

“It’s all good, kid,” Crowley said to Adam, although he had eyes only for his husband. “Come here, angel,” he demanded and pulled him in for another crushing hug. 

Anathema and Newt came in from the back garden, and Pepper and Adam stepped around the two people who looked as if they might squeeze each other to death to stand next to them. 

“Adam! You did it!” cried Anathema, putting her arm around him.

“Actually,” said Adam, “I think Pepper did it.”

Pepper blushed. “He needed some encouragement,” she said, nudging Adam with her shoulder.

“I think,” said Newt, steering everyone back out the door, “we’d better give them some privacy.”

When Aziraphale was reasonably assured that they were, indeed, back in the bodies they’d inhabited for the past six thousand or so years, he loosened his grip on Crowley and stepped back just enough to cup his face in his hands. “Oh,” he said, seeing his bare finger, “He’s forgotten the rings.”

Crowley snapped his fingers and plucked them from the air. 

“Not many people get to do this twice,” he said, taking Aziraphale’s hand and gently sliding the ring on.

Aziraphale sniffled and fumbled a bit as he tried to place Crowley’s ring back on his finger. “Oh, my dear,” he said, overcome. “My very own husband.”

And while they hadn’t during the wedding ceremony itself, they kissed now, softly at first, remembering the shape and feel of each other’s lips, and then with more passion, the familiar heat flaming up between them.

“Well,” said Crowley, pressing forward with his hips so Aziraphale could feel how hard he was, “I’m pretty sure this is back to normal, too.” 

“Better check mine,” said Aziraphale, bringing Crowley’s hand down to cup the front of his trousers. “Last time this happened, he didn’t put the books back quite right.”

“I’ll do a very thorough inspection later,” said Crowey, giving him a grope. 

“Now would do quite nicely.”

“Not in front of the kids,” said Crowley.

They kissed again, gently this time. 

“Well, what do you think, Mr. Fell-Crow?” asked Aziraphale. “Should we bid them farewell?”

“Bid that stupid name farewell,” said Crowley, taking Aziraphale’s hand. 

“I rather like it,” said Aziraphale as they made their way to the garden. “It has a nice ring to it.”

“No, it doesn’t,” insisted Crowley, holding the door open for his husband. “Come on, angel. Let’s say goodbye and get back to honeymooning. I believe,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, “that you had plans?”

“Oh, I _do_,” said Aziraphale. “So many plans.”

“Mm,” said Crowley as they stepped into the sunlight. “I can’t wait.”

***

Instead of returning to the B&B they’d originally rented, the couple, after performing several minor miracles to get the Bentley back, decided to head to London. London was home, and after the hubbub of being distinctly removed from their normal lives, they both craved familiarity.

After sharing every thought and feeling for two days straight, they spent the ride home in welcome silence, each alone in his contemplations. The silence was peaceful and companionable, though, and Aziraphale used the time to re-evaluate his honeymoon plans.

He had originally thought about each act he’d wanted to do, planning everything methodically to maximize their pleasure. He’d wanted Crowley to be so thoroughly loved that he wouldn’t be able to talk, much less walk properly. His plans had included erotic massage, tantric breathing, positions that even an experienced yogi couldn’t manage, fun with foodstuffs, hours of edging, and a thing with silk scarves. 

But now that it came down to it, Aziraphale didn’t want to do much more than to simply hold Crowley as tight as he could. It was funny how, after being intimate on a spiritual plane wherein their very essences had co-existed, all Aziraphale wanted to do now was snuggle up and get close. Not mentally, though. He’d had his fill of metaphysical kinky things and was ready for a proper bodily snuggle, one in which he and Crowley chose to share their bodies, rather than minds or souls, with each other. 

Aziraphale _liked_ Crowley’s body, and all the creative things Crowley could do with it. He enjoyed the human body, appreciated its form and function, found beautiful its natural rhythms and biologies. He loved the textures of Crowley’s skin and hair, the way he smelled, the sound of his voice. Aziraphale would love Crowley no matter what his physical corporation looked like, but he had grown attached to the one he’d inhabited for the past six thousand years. He was pleasant to look at, attractive, and sexy. And very real, alive, and tangible.

By the time they arrived back in the city, it was dark and raining. The Bentley, having recovered from its shock, glided up to the bookshop, and the newlyweds dodged the raindrops on their way inside. The heating was off, but neither was bothered by the cold. Wordlessly, they hung their coats, went upstairs, undressed, and climbed into their four-poster bed.

“Your feet are freezing,” said Crowley. “Bring them here.” Aziraphale did as he was told, sliding his feet between Crowley’s calves and rubbing them together. “That’s better. How else would you like me to warm you up? Want to tell me about all your sexy, sexy plans? I could feel you thinking about them on the way home.”

“It’s dark in here,” said Aziraphale. “I’d like to see you.”

With a snap of his fingers, Crowley lit the tapers in the candelabra, and then those of the wall sconces for good measure. 

“Better?”

“Yes, much.” Aziraphale was suddenly overcome with a wave of emotion and for a moment he was certain he would cry. He blinked back the tears and sniffed. “I just want to kiss you.”

“Hmm. Yeah. I missed that.” Crowley smiled and lay back, pulling Aziraphale on top of him. Their lovemaking tended to be marathonic by human standards, and they learned the hard way that kissing for several hours while on their sides produced very stiff necks. Aziraphale shivered anew, not from the chill, but from the sensation of Crowley’s fine-boned fingers skating along his back, down to his bum and over it, then back up. 

He liked being bodily atop Crowley largely because Crowley prefered it; Crowley liked being covered, held down, grounded. Aziraphale was momentarily worried, that first time, that he would crush Crowley, as his lover was so slight and he… was not. Crowley was emphatic that Aziraphale’s sturdy corporation was an incredible turn-on for him, and that he’d longed to feel Aziraphale’s bulk over him for ages. “I’m stronger than I look, angel,” he said when Aziraphale had voiced his concerns, and he proved it later that night by effortlessly holding Aziraphale against a wall as he fucked him silly. 

“I love how you feel on top of me,” said Crowley, continuing his caressing. “Your skin, angel. So soft and warm.”

They looked at each other in the same starry-eyed way they’d done for millennia. 

It had only been two days, but during those two days, Aziraphale had very much missed the minutiae of Crowley’s face: his eyebrows, dense, arched, dark, and expressive; the crow’s feet at the corner of each eye, the slope of his nose, his thin upper lip, the jut of his jaw. There, by his ear, the sigil that marked his true nature, and his eyes, inhuman and dangerous, that reminded Aziraphale every time he stared into them that the being he was kissing was not of his kind. He loved Crowley’s ears, the sensitive lobes and that little space behind them that begged to be kissed. Crowley’s throat, long and narrow, with his Adam’s apple prominent under the thin skin, was built for nuzzling. Up close, Aziraphale could see the freckles that adorned Crowley’s nose and cheeks. Each of them was precious after being momentarily lost.

“I missed your face,” he said, and, unable to hold back any longer, Aziraphale lowered his head to brush a kiss against his lover’s lips.

They were well-practiced kissers, each knowing the other’s style, how forceful or gentle to be depending on the mood, how to lead, to follow, or take turns. Something about not being able to kiss Crowley -- indeed, the threat that he’d never be able to do so again -- caused Aziraphale to approach it carefully, with reverence, not unlike he had the first times they’d kissed.

Here were the familiar lips, the top one slim and made for sneering, the bottom one a plateau that begged to be licked, nibbled, and sucked on. They lay there, breathing each other’s breath as their lips parted, met, and gently, so softly, parted and met again. The soft noises -- lips touching, moving against one another, Crowley’s vocalized exhalation when Aziraphale gathered his top lip between his own -- seemed to be more erotic than those they made when things got a bit more hot and heavy. 

Not wanting to rush, Aziraphale pulled back just enough to brush the hair off Crowley’s forehead before kissing each eyebrow, then his temples, then his cheeks; he rubbed the tip of his nose over the stubble of his jaw before finding his lips again. Crowley’s hips shifted under him, and Aziraphale reached down and adjusted their hard cocks into a more comfortable position before returning his attention to Crowley’s mouth.

It was strange, he thought vaguely as he ran his tongue over the spot where Crowley’s lower lip turned into the plush interior of his mouth, to want to put his tongue in there, the place where Crowley guzzled wine, kept his wily tongue, spat obscenities, hurled invectives, and, occasionally, belched fire. It was such a human thing to do, to kiss, to nuzzle, to touch tongue to tongue. Rather unhygienic, if you thought too hard about it. So Aziraphale didn’t think about it, and instead concentrated on his body’s natural inclination to seek his partner’s mouth, to nibble on sensitive lips and sneak past his teeth, those slightly wonky bottom ones that were all tipped inward and the sharp canines that hinted of fangs. 

Aziraphale was plenty warm by the time Crowley started kissing back in earnest, thrusting his tongue out to be sucked on, nearly unhinging his jaw to let Aziraphale expertly lick the inside of his mouth. 

“Bless it all,” said Crowley as Aziraphale took a breather to worry the side of his neck instead, “to think I would have to live without that…”

Aziraphale worked his way up Crowley’s neck to nip at an earlobe. “There’s something very nice about the real thing, isn’t there?” he said. 

“I mean, the metaphysical stuff is fine,” gasped Crowley, “amazing, even, but there’s something about knowing that it’s really happening, that it’s not in my head, but here, on Earth, in this body...”

“So very human of us,” said Aziraphale. And it was human, unlike anything angels did to share themselves in Heaven. An angel’s sharing themself was intimate, yes, and indeed culminated in pleasure, but it was a relatively sterile procedure that didn’t involve so many fluids, noises, or smells. There was no laughter at rude sounds human bodies tended to make, no frustration of not having something work exactly how one thought it would happen in his head, no cramping feet, no sighs of ecstasy or grunts of exertion. There were no mouths dry from panting or jaws sore from sucking or backs aching because it was taking longer than usual. There was never post-coital snuggling, no shared shower. Aziraphale wanted all of these things with Crowley, and the fact that he had them was nothing short of a genuine blessing.

“I rather like the human body,” said Crowley. “Yours, in particular. And mine, too. What I mean is, mine rather likes yours.” He thrust his hips up to accentuate the point.

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said, sitting up. “Indubitably.” He straddled Crowley’s body with his legs, his bum resting somewhere over Crowley’s knobby kneecaps. He rested his hands on Crowley’s chest, his thumbs brushing the hair around his nipples. He loved Crowley’s body hair, the abundance of it on his calves and forearms, how it went up to the soft, fine skin of his thighs and upper arms, the lovely patch of it on his chest, visible under his unbuttoned and low-cut shirts, tufts of it in the tender and ticklish hollows of his armpits, the trail of it leading down his belly to a profuse thatch around his cock, which was, at the moment, looking especially tempting. “My dear, you are simply scrumptious,” he said. “I am the luckiest angel.” 

He leaned back then, taking his own cock in hand and rubbing it up against Crowley’s. He loved the way they looked together, Crowley’s very red, slim, and long, and his own, plump and girthy. 

“Is it all working properly?” Crowley asked, looking down between them. 

“It appears to be.”

“Bit bigger than it was before?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Aziraphale, blushing. “Perhaps you should check. But first,” he said, relinquishing their cocks and scooching down, “l simply must have you in my mouth.”

***

Crowley was trying very hard not to come too quickly as Aziraphale gave him a thorough and sloppy blow job, complete with a finger up the bum. Aziraphale enjoyed sucking cock the way he enjoyed eating ginger layer cake with poached pears: every few moments he hummed in delight, or groaned, or made some other obscene noise that sent Crowley’s libido into the stratosphere. 

“Stop, stop,” Crowley panted, reaching down to run his fingers through Aziraphale’s curls. “I don’t wanna come yet, angel.” 

Aziraphale pulled off and gave Crowley’s balls a good nuzzle before returning to the head of the bed. “I love the way you taste,” he said, and Crowley could smell it, his scent on the angel’s face. It drove him mad with lust, all his demonic instincts on high alert, ready to glut themselves on whatever slightly tarnished holiness Aziraphale dished out. 

“You know, I lied earlier,” he admitted, sitting up and maneuvering Aziraphale onto his back so they could lie next to each other. “When we were sharing that body.”

“You did?”

“That fantasy you had when you wanked in the field? I looked. Played the whole thing, front to back. Twice.”

“You wicked serpent.”

“You loved it -- there, in the field. So uninhibited. Getting ridden by a demon. Me pinching your nipples.”

Aziraphale shuddered as Crowley’s fingers found their mark. Crowley loved Aziraphale’s nipples; big, soft, and pink, they hardened at a touch. Aziraphale’s were more sensitive than Crowley’s, and he liked them sucked, pinched, and plucked. They were too tempting to ignore, so Crowley swung himself atop his angelic lover, lowered his head, and suckled until Aziraphale begged him to stop, to please do something _more_.

“Do you remember the first time we fucked?” asked Crowley, sitting up to straddle the body below him. “How you said you wanted to be inside me?”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“I remember. There was so much of you, then, you were practically bursting at the seams, weren’t you?” He reached out to toy with Aziraphale’s foreskin, pushing it up, holding it tight around the head of his cock and softly squeezing before sliding it back down again. 

“Yes.”

“But what you really want is to put a part of yourself inside me -- your fingers, your tongue, your cock…”

“Yes, oh, yes.”

“There’s so much we can do with these two bodies that we can’t do with one. I could have lived an eternity fused together like that, if I had to, but there’s so much I can do with _this_ body that I couldn’t do with the other. Do you know I love the way you smell? I love the way I smell on you. It must be a demonic trait. To mark you, to know you’re mine.” He leaned over and kissed Aziraphale on the side of his mouth. “Your face smells of my cock,” he said, letting the lust within him unspool. “It’s only right that your cock should smell of me, too. Time to be anointed, angel.”

Crowley moved to sit astride Aziraphale, who was looking up at him with adoration and wonder. “Here’s hoping everything still works the way it did,” he said. There was a shiver of magic, a barely perceptible flicker of the candle light. 

“Oh, Crowley,” whispered Aziraphale, looking at what had changed between the demon’s legs. 

Crowley spread himself open with one hand and adjusted Aziraphale’s cock with the other, just so he could slide himself over it, so the very core of him was centered right above the base of Aziraphale’s prick. 

“You’re so hot,” Aziraphale said, awestruck. “And wet. For me, my love?”

“Only for you, angel mine,” he said. Just as he had in his own miniature fantasy, he reached out to rub the head of Aziraphale’s cock against his clit, which was already stiff and tingly. “I could get off like this,” he said, relishing the look of it, the head of Aziraphale’s cock, pink and wet with its own slippery lubrication, sliding back and forth across that little sensitive nub of flesh. Crowley thought that he could open the little mouth at the head of Aziraphale’s cock and give his own clit a tiny kiss.

He would have done so, had he not noticed how wrecked his lover looked, his hair wild, chest heaving, face flushed. He could deny Aziraphale nothing.

“But I won’t. I want you inside me, the same way you want to be inside me,” said Crowley, softly, as he guided Aziraphale to where he was wet and wanting. “Connected. Together.” 

He lowered himself down, hissing with pleasure as Aziraphale filled him. 

***

A great sometime later, one exhausted angel and one very satisfied demon lay in a very disheveled three-poster bed. The fourth poster had broken somewhere down the line, and the canopy had been knocked askew by Aziraphale’s wings, which had, once again, sprung from his back completely unbidden during his third orgasm of the night. (Crowley had had a cock at that point, and was so rapt watching his angel’s backside bounce and jiggle as he fucked him that he very narrowly missed getting whacked in the face.)

Crowley, who had been reveling in the fact he could change his body at will once more and, much to Aziraphale’s delight, had gone through his entire catalogue of presentations, was once again man-shaped. His eyes, however, when he lazily blinked them at his husband, were all snake; he was concentrating on nothing for once, feeling completely loved, sated, and safe.

Aziraphale held Crowley close. They were still hot and rather sweaty, but the fact that he could hold a hot and sweaty body close to his own was now something he wouldn’t take for granted. They could share themselves for a time, and then separate enough to want to come back together once more. Separate, thought Aziraphale as he drifted off, but never separated. 

***

On his way back to his office after the annual office safety training module, the Archangel Gabriel stopped at the Great Globe, just to satisfy his curiosity. He was surprised, and, he had to admit, rather pleased, to see that the orb that represented Aziraphale was back in London. He was even more pleased to see that a certain Soho bookshop currently contained, although they were very close together, two entities instead of one. 

As he watched, they started to move. “He shall cleave to whom he loves,” said Gabriel, and left them to it.


End file.
